A Man of Value (2 page)

These are the treacherous Saxons.

The two men conversed together quietly, still looking up. She couldn’t move, transfixed with fear and fascination. The man with black hair shook his head when the other put his hand on his comrade’s shoulder. Both seemed troubled. They put their helmets back on, turned and walked away.

She swooned against the wooden wall.

~~~

The first grey streaks of dawn were lighting the sky when she woke to find she was alone. The voices had fallen silent, and the house had burned to the ground. The stench of smoke filled her nostrils. With trembling hands, barely able to cling to the rickety ladder, she climbed down slowly from the loft, forcing her numbed legs to move, and went in search of her mother. Though some deep longing wanted to believe her father and brothers might still somehow be alive, why then wouldn’t they have come for her? How would she and her mother cope without the protection of their men?

Wandering in a daze, rubbing the smoke from her eyes, she was vaguely aware of other shuffling figures. Suddenly, she caught sight of her mother, slumped over a body. She came closer. Her mother was slumped over her father’s body. Agneta shook her by the shoulder. “Mamma, Mamma,” she coaxed, looking into the dead eyes of her beloved Papa. A choked gasp escaped her lips.

There was no response. Had her mother fainted? She took hold of her shoulders and eased her up. Blood trickled from the corner of her mother’s mouth and dripped on her bodice. Her father’s blood? Bile rose again in her throat. “Mamma—”

She must have screamed when she saw the ceremonial dagger she recognized as having belonged to her Danish grandmother. It was embedded to the hilt in her mother’s breast. “No,” she shrieked in anguish. “What about me? What about your little girl?”

She pulled on the dagger in her mother’s hand, desperate to plunge it into her own heart, but death’s grip held firm. She despaired that she lacked the strength to prize open her mother’s petrified fingers. Hurling hoarse curses at the grey sky, she buckled, collapsing to the hard ground, her hands tearing at her hair, retching uncontrollably.

Later that day the nuns found her curled up in a tight ball beside her brother’s body and took her to the nunnery.

CHAPTER TWO

Edwinesburh, Scotland, October1093

Lady Ascha Woolgar worried for her son. He and a group of his friends had joined forces with a band of Scottish marauders and they’d been raiding deep inside Northumbria. None of her entreaties would change his mind.

“Caedmon, you are too stubborn. The poor people of Northumbria suffered enough from the brutal harrying carried out by the Conqueror all those years ago. The land, and the people who did manage to survive, are only now recovering from what I’ve heard. Now you’re intent on raiding there?”

“We only target Norman holdings,” he reassured her. “King Malcolm
Cenn Mór
isn’t prepared to attack now, so skirmishes are what we have to content ourselves with for the moment.”

Each time they returned from their forays, they were dirty, bruised and exhilarated with the Norman plunder they hauled back. They outfitted themselves, like their Scots comrades, in leines and brats, though Caedmon told his mother once that some of the Scots stripped naked when raiding and greased their bodies. “They say it makes them more terrifying. They’re right. Sometimes they terrify me.”

“You’re a Saxon knight, Caedmon Brice Woolgar, not a barbaric Scot.”

“Mother, this will be good training for when King Malcolm launches his next offensive. We mostly use pikes and axes. I’m already skilled with the sword and this provides me with more choices. We don’t take as many chances as the Scots. They’re the fanatical killers. We Saxons concentrate on relieving the Normans of their ill-gotten gains. And don’t worry, I’m not likely to strip off my clothes when I go into battle.”

Ascha shook her head. “You speak as if it’s an outing.”

“Mostly that’s what it is—though—”

Ascha waited. He couldn’t be pushed, if he didn’t want to talk. She watched him bite his lip and scratch his head. When he spoke, his words terrified her.

“There was one raid, a few months ago, when I first joined them. It didn’t go the way Leofric and I anticipated.”

Ascha looked hard at her son, afraid to ask, “In what way?”

“They weren’t Normans.”

Ascha sank into a chair. “Caedmon! You raided Saxons? Tell me you didn’t.”

Caedmon went down on one knee in front of her and took hold of her hands. “I wish I could. We were near Alnwick, where the Earl of Northumbria’s castle is. We assumed from the Scots that all the estates in that area were held by Normans.”

She gripped his hands. “But they weren’t?”

Caedmon hung his head. “One turned out not to be.”

Again Ascha waited. Though Caedmon was a warrior, he wasn’t a brutal man, unlike his supposed father. Her son had morals and she recognized his need to confide in her. They’d depended on each other for many years.

He stood and walked away to the hearth. “By the time it became obvious they weren’t Normans, the Scots couldn’t be dissuaded. They murdered the lord and his family. They may have been Danes—or Saxons. He and his two sons fought bravely, but they were no match for the barbarians. There was nothing we could do. Their bloodlust sickened me.”

Ascha’s hands had gone to her mouth and she couldn’t speak.

He knelt again before her, his hand over his heart. “I killed no one, Mother, I swear. I admit I plundered their manor, but I didn’t kill anyone.”

She took his hands and squeezed them tightly. “Caedmon, this is much too dangerous. What were you doing close to a Norman stronghold like Robert de Mowbray’s castle? It’s foolhardy in the extreme.”

He frowned and rose to his feet. “Mother, what other choices are open to me, other than to be a mercenary? I have no lands, no titles. I must make my own way in the world. My skill as a warrior will perhaps bring me wealth. Otherwise, I have nothing to offer any woman if I wish to marry.”

“There’s the manor house at Ruyton.” As soon as she said it, Ascha wished she’d bitten her tongue.

He turned to look at her. “Ruyton?”

Ascha bit her lip. “Shelfhoc Hall was your father’s estate. It’s mine now, and has been administered for me by a steward since I left.”

“A steward?”

She couldn’t meet Caedmon’s enquiring gaze. “Yes, Ruyton is in the Welsh Marches. After your father died the Earl of Ellesmere offered to administer and protect Shelfhoc, to safeguard it from the Welsh.”

“The Earl of Ellesmere? A Norman? A Norman Earl administers your estate?”

She rose from the chair and walked over to the window, fidgeting with her wimple, her back to him. “Yes, Caedmon. Not all Normans are monsters.”

“Huh! Show me one that’s not. This has been the source of your income all these years? It never occurred to me. I assumed the money came from Uncle Gareth’s estate.”

She turned to face her son. “Some of it did. As you know, when my brother Gareth and his son Gawain were killed fighting to restore Edgar the Aetheling to the English throne, this house devolved to me. But Shelfhoc is
your
birthright, Caedmon.”

Caedmon scratched his head. “What fee does this great Earl impose for his Norman benevolence?”

Ascha sensed her face must have reddened in the course of the conversation but she was determined to keep her voice steady. “There’s no fee, Caedmon. It would be vulnerable to the Welsh without his protection.”

He slumped down into a chair, stretched out his legs and put his feet on a stool. “Well, mother, I’m not interested in riding off to live in the Welsh Marches. There’s work to do here for King Malcolm. He’ll need strong warriors for his next attack on Northumbria. The rumours are it will be soon.”

Should she weep or rejoice that he wouldn’t go to Ruyton?

~~~

“Sire, your Queen lies gravely ill, surely you don’t intend to leave her to attack Northumbria now?”

King Malcolm
Cenn Mór
sighed. His emotions were in turmoil. Duncan Kincaid, the man who stood before him as he sat in the Chart Room of his castle, was one of his most trusted advisors. “My beloved wife’s illness breaks my heart. She will not recover.”

He stood and banged his fist down on the map table. “But I must strike now, Duncan. It’s not enough that King William Rufus has cut us off from parts of Cumbria we’ve held sway over with his damned castle at Carlisle. No, he insults me at every turn, like his father, the Conqueror.”

Duncan shifted his weight from side to side, plainly ill-at-ease. “But we’re not prepared. The Saxons in our ranks are an undisciplined lot, and our own Scots have no sense of unity.”

Malcolm looked Duncan in the eye. “We must regain Northumbria,” he said slowly, drawing out each word, but he could see Duncan remained unconvinced.

“Your Majesty, the Earl of Northumbria, de Mowbray, has a highly trained and well equipped force waiting for you there. They have been strengthening the border for several years, especially after the recent bloody raids by those renegades and their Saxon henchmen. You’ll be marching into disaster.”

Malcolm snorted with contempt. “De Mowbray can’t be everywhere in Northumbria. We’ll use evasion tactics and march right past him, deep into the heart of Norman territory. My mind is made up. It will be a glorious victory. Northumbria will at last be ours.”

Duncan shook his head, and Malcolm wondered briefly if he should continue. “My son Edward will accompany me, to experience how it feels to grind the Normans into the dust. He can return home a hero, and lighten the heart of his ailing mother.”

Duncan looked shocked beyond belief. “But sire, he’s Queen Margaret’s eldest son. You’ve named him your heir. If anything happens to him—”

Malcolm held up his hand in a dismissive gesture and sat down again. “I’ll hear no more objections. My mind is made up. Summon the chiefs, and the Saxon leaders. We’ve battle plans to lay.”

~~~

Three sennights later, the Scottish court, dressed in deepest mourning, grieved the Great Chieftain’s death. Malcolm
Cenn Mór
, and his son and heir had both been killed in a bloody ambush in Northumbria, their army decimated. There were whispers of treachery. Roger de Mowbray had lain in wait at Alnwick.

“Queen Margaret has sent for the Black Rood,” Lady Ascha Woolgar murmured tearfully to Enid, leaning heavily on the trusted maid who’d been her confidante for many years. “It’s the most precious of the possessions she brought from Hungary—a fragment of the True Cross, encased in a gold cross, with an ivory image of Christ,” she whispered, as if in a trance. “She won’t last the night. Her heart is broken. The Black Rood will bring her consolation as she faces death.”

Enid struggled to control her tears, wondering where her beloved mistress would find consolation for her own broken heart. Lady Ascha’s only son, Caedmon, had not returned with the few mangled and maimed Saxons who had barely survived the trap at Alnwick.

CHAPTER THREE

Alnwick, Northumbria –November 1093

The handful of nuns and monks from the religious community, accompanied by villagers from Alnwick, made their halting way through the piles of already decaying bodies, strewn like broken puppets across the field. The earth had been churned to mud, now hardened to ruts by the frost. They’d all but given up hope of finding anyone else alive amid the carnage of the bloody slaughter by de Mowbray’s army.

Despite the cold air, masses of buzzing flies, drawn by blood and the stench of corruption, swarmed around them relentlessly. Mangy dogs sniffed the distorted corpses. Buzzards floated ominously overhead, waiting patiently. Braver crows were already pecking out eyes and tearing at fingernails. Ragged human scavengers picked over the remains of the dead.

“Quick Sister, o’er ‘ere,” came an unexpected shout. “I found one alive. I think.”

Numbed by the horror of the gruesome reality through which she staggered, terrified of falling on the fallen, Agneta fought to hold down the acrid bile rising in her dry throat. She would have to point out to Thomas Swineherd she wasn’t yet a Sister, only a novice. The final vows would be made once she came of age. She’d been at the nunnery for —how long was it now—eight months—since the murder of her parents?

Then her paralyzed brain absorbed the significance of what Thomas had shouted. Raising the edges of her habit, already caked with mud and gore, she stumbled over to where a nervous horse snorted and shied, its eyes wild. A wounded man lay completely covered by the mutilated corpse of another fallen warrior. The bodies were tangled, muddied and bloodstained and it was impossible to tell on which side they had fought. Was this man a Norman, a Saxon or a Scot? She didn’t care. None of them were worth saving. If she nursed them back to health, they would leave and kill again, or be killed. It was the way of men.

“’E’s badly wounded, Sister,” said Thomas, shooing away a persistent crow. “We mun get t’others off ‘im. Don’ look like a Scot—don’ wan’ save a curst Scot. Blest be God their curst King Malcolm died ‘ere. Mebbe now the raidin’ll cease. Wouldna foun’ thisun if t’weren’t fer ‘is ‘oss standin’ o’er ‘im like a sad dog.”

Agneta felt she should say something pious about God not caring on which side mortals fought, but the words stuck in her throat. She did care.

Thomas and another villager, Gilbert, struggled to lift the rigid corpse off the fallen warrior, and Agneta fell to her knees on the frozen ground beside him. She clenched her fists on her lap, hesitant to touch him, and looked him over for signs of life. The odour of his body assailed her nostrils. She straightened her back and wrinkled her nose.

“Are you sure he’s alive, Thomas?”

“Looks like he’s pumpin’ air, I reckon. Smells like it too,” he chuckled.

She wondered how anyone could keep a sense of humour amid all this sorrow, but noticed the rise and fall of the warrior’s broad chest. Convinced it was the cold seeping into her knees causing her to tremble, she reached out her hand to place it near his lips and felt a faint wisp of air caress her frozen fingers. He moaned suddenly and she snatched her hand away, toppling over.