Crusade (2 page)

‘Well, the Norseman tells me he’s alive and living in a remote hamlet, high in the Pennines.’

‘Do you think such a journey is wise when winter is well nigh upon us?’

‘Perhaps not … but the chance to meet the rightful heir to the English throne is a rare opportunity, and too fortuitous to miss.’

‘You English, you never give in! His time passed him by
sixty years ago. If he is still alive he must be in his dotage by now.’

‘Nevertheless … Choose three or four good men, and make sure they are handy with a sword. We leave after prayers in the morning.’

As William’s small party of monks journeys northwards, England’s countryside changes from a thriving kingdom of southern shires, where another rich harvest has been safely gathered in, to mile upon mile of grim desolation.

At Gloucester, Worcester and Chester they see new Norman strongholds in all their grandeur. Massive stone keeps are replacing wooden mottes and baileys, modest Saxon cathedrals are being rebuilt on impressive Romanesque lines. Normans and Englishmen mix freely; this new England is a land transformed. However, north of Chester, settlements become more and more sporadic and in places where people are to be found, they live in little more than hovels and endure a pitiful existence.

In the southern earldoms, people speak only of the memories of the massacres committed by William the Conqueror in his Harrying of the North of nearly sixty years ago. But in the North, the nightmare is still real.

After crossing the Mersey, William decides to make several detours down minor routes, both east and west. Away from the main road to Scotland, a route which runs north through Preston and Lancaster where a thin band of normal life is upheld by the vigilance of Norman garrisons, lie huge tracts of ravaged land. Rapidly being consumed by nature, decades of backbreaking toil to clear forests, plough fields and build villages will, in another generation, be wasted. Prime farming land will become nothing more than wilderness.

The western side of the Pennines is the most impoverished of all. In the east, the strategic route to Scotland and the importance of York and Durham mean that the Normans have been careful to rebuild and resettle. In the west, little has changed since the murder and destruction of 1069.

So complete is the devastation and killing in the remote parts of the hinterland that no one is left to bury the dead. Bodies, now no more than sun-bleached skeletons wrapped in rotting fragments of clothing, are still lying where tens of thousands of people were massacred in their villages.

William is deep in thought; there are tears in his eyes, his knuckles white as he grasps his reins in anguish.

‘I have read all the accounts of the Conqueror’s dreadful deeds in this land, but words cannot describe the true horror of this. It is to be hoped that he is now suffering at the hand of God for what he has done here.’

Roger has been fortunate in life. His has been the
sheltered existence of a cleric since childhood; he has never witnessed anything like this before.

‘So, it is true. He really was a monster.’

‘Yes, he was a ruthless tyrant, like many of your countrymen.’

‘We are not all like him.’

‘I know, my son, but my father was a Norman, so I know that a love of war and a penchant for avarice fire the Norman blood.’

Both men say silent prayers as they pass every example of the brutality committed a lifetime ago.

There is still a small community on the hill at Lancaster, where a heavily armed garrison of the King’s men is overseeing the building of a stone keep, but the only civilians are a few souls marooned in service to the garrison and the masons. Most of the old burgh is in ruins, its simple wooden buildings burned to the ground, its small Saxon stone church gutted, its roof timbers charred and decaying.

William and Roger make camp beneath the walls of Lancaster’s keep. It is a cold night and their men build a large fire for them.

Roger is in pensive mood.

‘Abbot, why is it always the innocent who suffer?’

‘War is like a tempest; no one is safe. When a storm rages in the hearts of men, it consumes everything in its path. Like peasants’ hovels in a gale, it is the little people who are the most vulnerable.’

‘I’m glad we have the walls of Malmesbury and our Holy Orders to protect us.’

‘Don’t be too complacent, my young friend. If the winds are powerful enough, neither stout walls nor a monk’s heavy cassock will keep you safe. Both can prove flimsy in the midst of the tumults made by men.’

‘Thank you for that comforting thought, Abbot.’ Roger smiles wryly before another blast of cold air reminds him how uncomfortable he is. ‘This prince, Edgar … what kind of man is he?’

‘He is intriguing – enigmatic, shrewd, obviously a survivor. He has lived a very long life and is the only senior figure from the time of the Conquest still alive. He knew two Kings of England – Edward and Harold – and he was at York with Hereward of Bourne when the great English rebellion looked like it might succeed. And that was only the beginning of his story.

‘He befriended King William’s firstborn, Robert Curthose. He fought in Sicily and the Crusades, and stood with Robert at the Battle of Tinchebrai. What stories he can tell us!’

Roger stares at his mentor admiringly.

‘Well, if you put it like that, I suppose it’s a journey worth making.’ Then he adds, with rather less enthusiasm, ‘I just wish it wasn’t so far north and so bitterly cold.’

When they reach the settlement of Sedbergh, they find another tiny enclave of normality. Previously a flourishing village, it is now no more than a few makeshift shelters; the once-proud Anglo-Norse inhabitants have been reduced to a wretched vestige of humanity. Many are sick, some are lame, and all look pale and undernourished.
Their clothes are little better than rags, few wear leggings and most walk barefoot.

William decides to stay for a while to help the community find some purpose. He puts his men to work, trying to make the meagre dwellings more habitable, while he and Roger strive to inspire the locals to help themselves. One young man, no more than a boy of sixteen or seventeen, seems the most vigorous, and William takes him to one side.

‘How many people are there here?’

‘Sire, about twenty in the village and another dozen or so in the hills around us.’

‘Where is your priest, or your thegn? Don’t you have a lord?’

‘There is no one. We are all from different villages. Our parents settled here a few years ago, after spending years hiding in the forests and on the fells. No one has claimed the village, so we came here to try to rebuild it.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Aldric, Abbot.’

‘Where are your parents now?’

‘They are dead. All the original settlers are dead. Last winter was very harsh, and many died. A group of younger men went down the valley in the spring to look for work, but we never saw them again. So, this is all that’s left – old men and women, a few children and four or five of us who are reasonably fit and well.’

‘Why haven’t you left?’

‘Because it’s our duty to stay; they would all die if we left.’

‘I admire your courage and sacrifice. Gather together
the fit members of the community; I want to talk to them.’

Young Aldric summons two other young men, as well as three girls in their teens. William sits them down in the middle of the village and addresses them.

‘I am claiming possession of this village under the ownership of the Abbey of Malmesbury.’

There is an immediate look of horror on the faces of Aldric and his companions, but William is quick to reassure them.

‘My abbey will not be taxing you – at least, not until you can easily afford it. I will give you silver to buy seed, a couple of oxen and a plough, and sufficient to buy some sheep and cows. Tomorrow, Roger and one of my men will ride back to Lancaster to buy food to get you through the approaching winter.’

William is heartened when he sees the horror on the faces in front of him transformed into an expression of astonishment.

‘I am appointing Aldric as Thegn of Sedbergh, which I will have confirmed by King Henry at Winchester upon my return to Malmesbury. The rest of you are appointed elders of the village on my authority. Are there any questions?’

There is a stunned silence.

‘Tomorrow we will help you build a longhouse for the village, where you can all stay warm together in the winter. We won’t leave until it is finished. When it is complete, I will bless it and we will say mass together. In a few months’ time, when I find the right candidate, I will send you a priest from Malmesbury and together you can build him a church.’

Aldric bends down to kiss William’s ring, but the Abbot pulls him up, embarrassed at the overt show of gratitude. However, he’s not agile enough to prevent the girls, overcome by emotion, kneeling at his feet to bury their heads in his cassock.

Roger, seeing William’s unease at this outpouring of gratitude, catches William’s eye and grins at him mockingly.

‘Away to Lancaster with you,’ roars the Abbot. ‘And be quick about it!’

Ten days later, the longhouse finished and the village given a spark of life, William and his party head north to Appleby on the river Eden and begin to ascend the fells of the high Pennines towards Kirby Thore and the old Roman fort of Bravoniacum.

As they leave Sedbergh behind, Roger turns to Abbot William.

‘Will they prosper?’ he asks.

‘I think so. They’ve been through a lot and are strong people; they just needed a little bit of inspiration. We will keep an eye on them.’

Roger smiles to himself. He knows he has a lot to learn and that William will be an inspiring teacher.

There is a similar scene of poverty and destitution in Appleby. The old village is in ruins, save for a single ale and mead house run by Wotus, a crusty old Northumbrian, and his family, whose Anglo-Norse language William has difficulty understanding. Wotus makes just enough to survive by serving the itinerant charcoal-burners and lead-miners who come to his house once a week to drink
themselves stupid and stare longingly at his comely daughters.

After a couple of days’ rest, William’s men conclude that, although the Northumbrian’s daughters are worthy of a modest detour, his ale and mead are far less endearing, his beds are in desperate need of fresh straw and his midden not fit for pigs.

And so, they move further north. The chill wind of winter begins to bite and snow falls from the gull-grey clouds above them. They lose touch with humanity. All signs of life – or death – disappear. Roger looks out across the bleak scene.

‘What kind of man would choose to live up here?’

‘One who has many memories to dwell upon, and perhaps a few regrets. When people who have lived a turbulent life come to face the end of it, it’s often the case that they seek solitude in which to reflect.’

William and Roger spend many hours speculating on the long and fascinating life of Edgar the Atheling, all of which only increases William’s impatience to meet him. But their idle musings are brought to an end by the increasing remoteness of their route.

Their men-at-arms look tense; they are not easily unnerved but are not accustomed to such hostile terrain. The boundless swathes of primordial forest, untouched by the hand of man, are dense and dark, and above them the high fells rise like menacing shadows. Only on the very crests of the fells is the ground clear, where relentless wind and bitter cold make it difficult for anything to grow except moss and heather.

On the third day north of Sedbergh, their sergeant rides back from his lead position to speak to William.

‘My Lord Abbot, is it wise to go on? This place is wild.’

‘Sergeant, the man we seek will have chosen this place deliberately. He is a prince of the realm – if he can venture here, so can we.’

‘I fear we are being watched … perhaps for the last couple of hours. I’m not certain, but I think I can see movement in the trees.’

‘Be vigilant, Sergeant. Send your best man to higher ground to see if we’re being followed. And tell the men to stay alert.’

The sergeant sends out his senior man, Eadmer, with instructions to work his way around to the back of the small party and check if anyone is following them.

They eventually find the key to their passage: the Maiden Way, an ancient Roman route, cut over the fells a millennium earlier to link the lead and silver mines of the northern hills to the routes heading south and to the fort at Carvoran on the Great North Wall of the Emperor Hadrian.

William has often reflected on Rome and its achievements. When writing his chronicles of the English kings, there were many monarchs he admired, such as the great and noble Alfred. He has marvelled at their courage, wisdom and triumphs. But if only he had been a scholar in Ancient Rome, then he could have been the chronicler of men who had conquered the known world; those who built a civilization so sophisticated and powerful that it endured for hundreds of years.

Now he is approaching the last outpost of their empire.
He shivers, partly in awe at contemplating their triumphs and partly in dread at what he is getting himself into in this fearful place. He wonders what the intrepid Romans must have thought as they trudged northwards. Rugged and resolute, no doubt, they were men from the Mediterranean, southern Gaul; perhaps as far as Anatolia, North Africa, or Phoenicia. They must have been as anxious as he is now. What men they must have been!

The Maiden Way is little used and difficult to negotiate, but at least it cuts through the forests, fords the rivers and points true north.

‘Abbot, do you know the route?’

‘I do; the Norseman’s instructions were very clear.’

‘May a young monk, who is perhaps often too sure of himself for his own good, confess to an overwhelming feeling of terror at his current circumstances?’

William smiles and turns to his young companion.

‘There is much to fear in this world: nature and its wild and unpredictable habits; man and his bestial depravities. But it is God we should respect the most, for He controls everything. Pray to Him and ask for His protection.’