The Outlander King

By Hilary Rhodes

The story of The Lion and the Rose and the Norman Conquest continues in this spellbinding new historical fiction series from author Hilary Rhodes, pulling back the curtain on the lives of two remarkable women connected across centuries: Aislinn, a seventeen-year-old English girl caught up in the advancing army of the “outlander king,” the man who will become known to history as William the Conqueror. Thrust into the center of the new Norman court and a dizzying web of political intrigue and plotting princes, she must choose her alliances carefully in a game of thrones where the stakes are unimaginably high. Embroiled in rebellions and betrayals, Aislinn learns the price of loyalty, struggles to find her home, and save those she loves – and, perhaps, her own soul as well.

Almost nine hundred years later in 1987, Selma Murray, an American graduate student at Oxford University, is researching the mysterious “Aethelinga” manuscript, as Aislinn’s chronicle has come to be known. Trying to work out the riddles of someone else’s past is a way for Selma to dodge her own troubling ghosts – yet the two are becoming inextricably intertwined. She must face her own demons, answer Aislinn’s questions, and find forgiveness – for herself and others – in this epically scaled but intimately examined, extensively researched look at the creation of history, the universality of humanity, and the many faces it has worn no matter the century: loss, grief, guilt, redemption, and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hilary Rhodes
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310864445

Hilary Rhodes

Hilary Rhodes is a scholar, author, blogger, and general geek who fell in love with British history while spending a year abroad at Oxford University. She holds a B.A. in English and history and an M.A. in religion and history, and is currently studying for her Ph.D in medieval history in the UK. She enjoys reading, writing, traveling, music, her favorite TV shows, and other such things, and plans to be a professor and author of history both scholarly and popular, fictional and nonfictional.

Book preview

Prologue

This record being a true and honest account of my days, set down in mine own hand in God’s Year 1112. My name is Aislinn. I have been daughter, sister, mother, servant, and lady, and many other roles that must be unfolded in their turn, yet I do not know to whose hands I commend these words. I am alone these days, after all.

Perhaps you are surprised, my unknown reader, that this is the record of a woman. I know it is uncommon, but then, I have had an uncommon life. If I am blessed, I shall be allowed seven more years to my biblical promise of threescore and ten, but nothing is ever certain and winter is coming. That is why I must have this down at last.

This chronicle is written under Alexander, King of Scots, whose parents and uncle have been known to me dear. In England, the head that wears the crown is that of Henry Beauclerc, and the ties bind me here as well, for I have also been subject under his brother, William the second, and his father, William the first. There is much to say of them all, for this has been a long journey. But I shall start my tale at its beginning, in anno Dominus, 1066.

I was seventeen years old.

Book One

The Outlander King

Aislinn

1066

CHAPTER ONE: The Outlander King

I saw the riders coming while they were still far off, sometimes visible and sometimes hidden in the mist, their standards faint smears of colour against the grey sky. From this distance I could not tell who they were, or in which direction they were making. I marked their progress for a while, but soon lost interest and returned to my gathering. I knew I was quite safe here – at least from men. Herbs and flowers grew thickly on the tor, but there was a dolmen there, a great standing stone, a fey and not entirely friendly thing. For this reason most of the townsfolk stayed well away, and even I did not dare to linger past sundown. I did wonder if the far-off travellers weren’t a clever sort of spirit, thinking to put me off my guard with an approach more subtle than a bang of light.

When I glanced up again, they were only half a mile gone, and clearly coming my way. I held still, considering, and the wind whistled in my ears. It was a cold day, and the weather was miserable. But I felt it less. I was beginning to wonder – and to worry.

I had heard about the war from the whispers boiling in Brýdley, but never considered them of much interest. King Edward was dead, and surely it was saddening, for he was known as a gentle and godly man and the country had been peaceful and prosperous under his rule. But other than a name, what was the king to us? We never saw the man, and all we hoped was that the reign of King Harold Godwinson, which had begun the best part of a twelvemonth ago, would see us left in similar quietude. Yet if the rumours were true, he had been beset not only by his own brother and a pack of pillaging Norwegians, but by a horde of invading Norman Frenchmen as well. Everyone knew that the Frenchmen were responsible for the various upsets of King Edward’s tenure – for that matter, he himself had been far too Norman for our conservative tastes, having a Norman mother and spending half his life in Norman exile as he had – but nobody had fond memories of the Norwegians, either.

Papa was Norse on his father’s side (my brothers and I had heard many tales about our storied grandsire Magnus Greybeard, some of which might even have been true). But though twenty years of rule by the Danish King Canute had done much to encourage Scandinavian settlement in England, and the north was almost entirely populated with men of Viking heritage, the appearance of Tostig Godwinson and Harald Hardråda of Norway had done much to rekindle old passions against the ‘barbaric’ folk. At this point in my life – even with a Scottish mother and a half-Norse father – I was certainly in no position to feel otherwise. More so, in fact, for in the cloistered, insular south of England, where my parents had settled and where I had been born and raised, it was not at all wise to call attention to my heritage in this way. For her life long, Mama had been regarded by our neighbours as a Celtic witch, and so my four brothers and I were always at constant, conscious pains to prove how much we truly did belong here. Yet in some ways, we had been outsiders since our birth, and no one felt it more keenly, especially since Mama’s death, than my dangerously hot-tempered eldest brother, Robert.

The riders had now drawn even closer. They trotted alongside the stream, vanished briefly, and emerged alarmingly near on the other side. At this, curiosity at last sharpened into fear. I scrambled along the mossy ledge and hid myself in the boulders that formed the steep northern face of the tor.

This was done not a moment too soon. I dared a look, and saw that they were filing under the ledge, directly beneath me. Perhaps fifty, fighting men all, and a further ten or so horse behind them, laden with packs and supplies. The men were clad in dirty hauberks and helmets, with longbows, swords, and kite-shaped shields strapped to their saddles. Their banners materialised through the fog like blooms of blood: rust-red, two golden lions rampant, tails lashing and claws raised.

I did not move. I knew what men might do to a maid, if they came upon her a sudden with battle still fresh in their minds. They had drawn to a halt, and horse whinnied almost in my ear, startling me badly. I bit my tongue, then bit it again when, in a sudden, clear voice, the leader spoke. His words were in a language I did not understand, although his tone was fiery. But I did understand the result. They laughed, and a roar went up.

The leader stood in his saddle to look down the valley: the huddled crofts, the bare terraces, and the rocks lining the muddy cart track. He surveyed it with a vicious, acquisitive pride, as if seeing it the first time. He must have been. The alien tongue had been my indication, but even without it, I would have known he was no Saxon. His shoulders were broad, his bearing majestic, and he wore a scaled-leather cuirass over his mail hauberk. His hair was rich gold, crowned by a dirty silver circlet. His nose was long, his cheekbones high. I could not tell what colour his eyes were.

I was still cautious, but curious. Abandoning my protected position, I inched forward. I was certain I did not make a sound, or move too quickly, but he saw me nonetheless. He lifted his head sharply, and gazed straight into my face.

His eyes were grey. The grey of beaten silver, living water. There was something wild in them – neither cruel nor merciful – and I knew then that this was it. He was going to call to me, bid me answer what a lone woman was doing out so far. And if I could not, he would set on me. But he merely considered me a moment more, then shook his head, and our gaze was broken. I lingered as if frozen, then jerked back behind the boulders.

He gathered the reins, and gave a light click to his horse. Immediately, the host behind him gave spur to their mounts as well, and they rumbled off toward the mill bridge. It was only when they had gone, and as I watched the dust settle, did it strike me who that man was. I had just looked into the eyes of the new King of England.

When I fell into the yard, breathless and muddy from my frantic run, I must have looked as if the army were at my very heels. Papa and my brothers all turned at my dramatic entrance, and James started up with an expression of alarm. We were twins, he my elder only by moments. ‘Aislinn, what?’

‘The tor,’ I sputtered. ‘I – I saw them. Riders. Fifty at least. Fighting men.’

Papa, Leif, and James exchanged uneasy glances. Robert said, ‘Where?’

‘On the cart track. Coming this way.’

‘You’re quite sure you didn’t dream them?’ James asked. ‘We’ve all heard the tales about the tor. It’s an ill place, you shouldn’t go there.’

‘Of course I didn’t dream them! It was a king leading them, the king, I swear it – ’

‘How would you know that?’ Robert turned to Papa. ‘Why would King Harold be here? Let’s have no more of this madness, and – ’

He was interrupted by a shout from Leif. ‘Riders!’

All of us whirled to look, and Leif leapt off the fence, nearly falling. Sure enough, we could all see the shapes of men and horses, fast drawing form from the mist. They were thundering downhill toward our croft, which lay on the marches of Brýdley, usually quiet, secluded – and now horribly vulnerable.

Robert sprang to his feet and snatched me by the elbow. ‘Go! Hide!’ He gave me a hard look, but there was a fierce protectiveness in it as well, and he hustled me across the yard at a terrific clip, threw me to my knees, and gave me an extra shove to force me beneath the haystack. ‘Don’t move. Don’t come out until I tell you.’

I would have made a sharp remark, but my mouth was full of straw, and besides he had already gone. I peered out, tense all over, as Papa and my brothers frantically scattered the harvesting scythes, tore off their threshing knives, in an attempt to look as unthreatening as possible. The army had just mounted the last swell and was pouring into the yard, hoofbeats thundering in the ground. They came to a halt, watching us as closely as we were them, and there was a hanging silence. Then the leader rode forward.

‘Greetings, goodmen,’ he said, in accented but excellent Saxon. ‘Your house is done great credit this day, for you are in the presence of the King of England.’

I told you, I thought fiercely at my brothers’ backs. Dreaming of faeries, was I?

‘We – we are honoured,’ said Leif warily. ‘But there are so many claims – we scarce know who to believe – ’

‘Many have claimed, yes,’ said the king, with a thin smile. ‘None live to repeat it, save myself. If it is news you wish, then news I bear. Harold the usurper is dead. Victory was won at Hastings a fortnight ago, and the country is under my command.’

He evaluated them a moment more. Then he turned to the soldier beside him and asked, ‘Is it not customary to kneel in the presence of a king?’

A heartbeat, then my menfolk sank to their knees in the cold mud. Papa’s greying head was the first to bend, for he had learned the hardest lessons about pleasing the powerful. ‘We greet you, my lord. Wæs hael.’

The king turned back to the same soldier. ‘And is it not also customary, Malger, to grant a king the style Your Grace?’

‘Apologies, Your Grace,’ Papa murmured.

The king smiled. ‘Your name, goodman?’

‘Alfred, Your Grace. These are my sons. Robert, Leif, James, and Magnus.’

‘Four strong sons. Any man would be proud to own to that. And, Goodman Alfred, is it not furtherly customary to make a tribute of fealty to one’s new king?’

‘Tribute – Your Grace, this is a poor croft, we have nothing – ’

‘Do you understand loyalty, Goodman Alfred?’

‘Aye, Your Grace.’

‘And are you loyal to me?’

‘I am loyal to the King of England.’

‘To me, then.’

Papa paused. ‘Aye, Your Grace.’

‘Well then. I will accept one of your sons as tribute.’

‘But Your Grace – ’ Papa began.

The king ignored him. ‘You may keep the eldest.’ He cast a critical eye over Robert, who threw back his shoulders and met the king’s gaze squarely, perilously, then turned to Leif. ‘This one looks more scribe than swordsman, and that one – ’ no more than half a glance at Magnus – ‘is too young. So, Goodman Alfred, as your seal of loyalty, I shall have – ’ and here he drew his sword, three and a half feet of tempered steel, and pointed it in the face of my dear one, my soul’s other half – ‘your son James.’

Perhaps I moved after all, gave an involuntary gasp of protest. I cannot swear to it. Or perhaps it was pure ill luck that a sudden flurry of wind caught the haystack at precisely this moment. I clutched desperately at it, but the damage was done. There was a sudden frosty silence, the shriek of steel, and the king barked, ‘Who is that?’

‘Nothing, Your Grace!’ Papa pleaded. ‘Just the wheat we’ve harvested, a gust – ’

The king ignored him, motioning to a pair of archers to nock and hold. ‘James, let this be your first task for me. Go to that haystack and fetch out what’s hidden in it.’

James hesitated.

‘Now,’ said the king.

Still James hesitated, and for an awful moment I thought the king would order the archers to loose. But then he nodded, and turned toward the haystack. I watched him approach, watched him loom, and then he bent over me. He slipped his arms around my waist, and I felt his fear, a fine tremor running all through him, as he made a show of straightening me up and brushing the hay off. ‘My – my sister, Your Grace.’ His voice was thin. ‘A halfwit. No use to anyone.’

‘Bring her here.’

James obeyed. I let my head loll crooked, lips parted and eyes rolling, but I did not dare look up. If the king recognised me, he would know at once that we were lying to him, and I somehow doubted that he would take it well.

‘It’s the king, Aislinn,’ James said loudly. ‘The king. Curtsey to the king?’

I dropped into an awkward, stumbling bob, hearing the soldiers laughing openly. ‘Tasty little haunch, let’s take her too! We’d see she found a good home!’

‘Aye, in my bed!’ another shouted.

‘What would your wife think, Corbin?’ a third joined in. ‘A halfwit?’

‘Well, that would just keep the slattern company, wouldn’t it?’

A second gale of laughter rocked the soldiers. I was not at all certain that they would be less inclined to sample my charms if they thought me feeble-witted, yet what startled me the most to hear them speak was that at least some of them were Saxons. But among the laughter and filthy jokes, the king was not joining in, and an embarrassed silence fell. ‘Begging your pardon, Your Grace,’ one man mumbled. ‘Go on.’

‘Thank you for the leave,’ the king said icily. And he spoke again, to me. ‘Look up, girl.’ To James, ‘Does she understand me?’

‘I d-don’t know, Your Grace,’ my brother stammered. ‘She’s being stubborn, I don’t know why. Normally she’s no – ’

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the king raise a closed fist, and James abruptly went quiet. Then he sheathed his sword and dismounted.

On his feet, the king towered over me. As he came nearer I could smell him, a powerful reek of sweat, battle, horse, unwashed man and hard riding, and I struggled not to change my expression. But a breath later, all the space between us crumpled and folded away. ‘Let her go.’

James did as he was told. For a moment, I stood alone, swaying slightly. Then a strong hand grasped me under the chin and pulled my head up, straining my neck.

I stared into the king of England’s eyes for the second time that day. They were so cold that I shivered away from them, freezing iron, and they were framed in fine lines that made me realise he was older than I had thought. But he recognised me. I knew he did. I saw the triumph, the way his lips curled in a mocking smile. Then he gave my face a sharp squeeze, and let go. ‘She’s witless aright,’ he announced. ‘We’ll have her too.’

There was a rumble of approval, and more laughter, from the soldiers. Papa made a sound of distress, and terror renewed in my stomach like a ravening flame. The king ignored us both, and turned to Robert. ‘You there. Fetch your brother and sister’s things.’

Robert’s gaze was mutinous, but he said nothing. Then Papa said softly, ‘Do it.’

For a long moment, I read nothing but derision in my brother’s eyes, at the idea Papa might bend the knee to save our lives, our tiny croft and the pitiful hay-stack. It was something he had never understood. ‘As you wish, old man,’ he spat, then shoved Papa aside, shoved Magnus as well, and stormed off. Another silence fell like cloud.

‘He must learn to guard his temper,’ said the king. ‘It will be the death of him.’

‘Your Grace. . .’ Papa gave a helpless shrug. ‘I pray you, he means no harm.’

‘If you say so,’ said the king. ‘His haste is exemplary, at least. Returned already.’

Sure enough, Robert was coming back, clipped and bitter, with my basket of herbs and our satchels. He shoved it all at James without a word, and Papa, as slowly as the old man he had suddenly become, came to me. I wanted to hold him tightly and be afraid, but I could not. I had to stay dumb, let him embrace me as if I was a statue. He kissed me on the forehead, and whispered, ‘Be brave, daughter.’

Leif and Magnus both stepped near as well. Leif’s hand clasped mine, and Magnus’s eyes overran with tears. He was only eight, and could not understand why we were being taken with barely a farewell. ‘But why, Aislinn?’ he cried.

I shook my head, to warn him that I could not speak, but reached to touch his mop of black curls. I wanted to hold him against my heart, but had to do so only in memory.

Seeing this was through, the king turned to James again. ‘On your knees.’

James hesitated only a heartbeat before he went down, face expressionless, and bowed his head. There was a dead silence, broken by neither the circling crows nor the cold wind, as the king stood over him.

‘I, James, son of Alfred – ’

‘I, James, son of Alfred – ’

‘Do swear in the sight of our Lord Christ Jesus and of my fellow men – ’

‘Do swear in the sight of our Lord Christ Jesus and of my fellow men – ’

‘To serve in thought, word, and deed, night and day, in sight and out of it, until my lord release me or death receive me, the throne of England and its rightful king, William of Normandy. To you will I bear body, chattels, and earthly worship, and I will keep faith and loyalty to you above all others.’

‘To serve in thought, word, and deed, night and day, in sight and out of it, until my lord release me or death receive me, the throne of England and its rightful king, William of Normandy. To you will I bear body, chattels, and earthly worship, and I will keep faith and loyalty to you above all others.’

‘On my eternal soul I make this oath, and might I be damned should I break it. Amen.’

‘On my. . . eternal soul I make this oath, and might I be damned should I break it. Amen.’

The king – King William – held out his sword, and James pressed his lips to it. Then it was done. William turned away, calling to the men, and James came to his feet. He glanced at Papa, who was staring in desperation, to Leif, who was pale as a ghost, and to Magnus, who was crying. But none of us could see Robert’s face, for he had turned away, into the wind. I ached to speak to him, but could not run the risk that they would notice. And then the moment was gone. He folded his arms tightly, as if to hold himself together, and did not look up again.

‘James,’ the king called.

James turned. ‘Aye, Your Grace?’

‘This is to be your mount.’ William indicated the horse they’d relieved of its burden, a dappled rouncey with white about its muzzle and placid brown eyes. Not a hot-tempered destrier, nor a well-bred palfrey, but a packhorse, and more to the point an old one, which would be overtaken in a moment should we think to chance an escape.

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ said James, and scrambled clumsily astride.

‘And your sister,’ said William. He nodded to one of the men, who dismounted to offer me a hand up, so I put my foot on his fingers and let him haul me skyward. It was the first time I had ever been ahorse, and the broad slippery back swayed beneath me.

James put his arms around me and took the reins, and William gave us his unreadable stare. ‘The road will be dangerous, so keep close. We might be attacked.’

‘What should I do if we are?’

‘Ride faster.’ William turned away, stepped into his stirrups with an ease as if he’d been born there, and set his heels to the courser’s side.

All at once we began to trot. I gave an involuntary whimper and clutched harder, and James’s arms held tighter around me. I wondered how I could possibly pretend not to know that I was a prisoner, leaving my home and family for what well might be forever.

I looked back. I feared to turn to salt. I saw Papa standing silent, and Leif holding Magnus fiercely by the shoulders. But Robert did not look, and did not watch us go.

I had to concentrate on not falling off, or else I would have watched them as long as I could, to engrain them on my heart and tell myself I would never forget. But when I looked back again, the croft where I had been born and spent my life had dwindled into the dells. When I looked back the third time, it had gone completely in the mist.

I was supposed to be strong enough. Step into Mama’s place. Accept the fact that she was taken away overnight. That these things, while sad, were all in Christ’s sight and not particularly unusual. From Papa, who needed her. From me, who had so much to learn from her. From Magnus, the son she had borne and never known. From Leif and James. And from Robert, who without her became almost unreachable in his grief.

I had thought I was not a child. That was a lie. I was. I could not understand any of it. I was now the lady of the house, and yet I did not understand how to do the cooking, or the mending, or the spinning, or to comfort them, or how to soothe Magnus when he woke in the night. She had told me to hold on, and I could not.

All I could do was try, and that was not enough.

CHAPTER TWO: The Fortunes of War

We rode the rest of the day, although I doubt we made more than a league or two. That was because, at every lonely croft and cot, there was to be a repeat of the same sad scene that had sent us forth. If smoke touched the horizon, William would look to see if there was a holding. If so, he would ride in, summon out the grey-faced farmer and his silent wife, have them swear their fealty, and claim a son, without exception. Sometimes there was only one son, or a small one, and the parents would beg William to be lenient. It please the king, they had a coin, a sack of grain, or something, something – but it was as if they’d appealed to a statue. William took their sons, no matter how scrawny or ill-suited, and mounted them on the pack-nags, two or three apiece. One of the smallest could not have been more than five, and William’s man slung him onto our horse as if he were a bundle of rags. ‘Here,’ he said to James. ‘Mind that one.’

The boy was shivering, terrified. His father had been particularly loathe to let him go, and had croaked over and over, ‘He’s only a little lad, no use to ye, Your Grace – give him ten years, I’ll glad send him to ye then – please, don’t take him, he’s all I have, please, Your Grace – ’

None of this had any effect on William whatsoever, and nor was it wise to entertain even the glimmers of rebellion. At the very next cot, the father was a brawny sort, defiance fresh in his eyes, and he said, ‘M’lord, you shan’t have my lad. It’s plain as that. He’s not yours to take.’

‘Really,’ said William. ‘I don’t recall asking permission. Is that your answer?’

The man was frightened, but resolute. ‘Aye,’ he said stubbornly. ‘My lad will only serve the true king of the English. Not some mad dog of a Frenchman – ’

William, looking bored, turned to the soldier at his side. ‘I grow weary of this. Make an example of him.’

‘Aye, Your Grace,’ said the man, and gave his horse two quick spurs forward. The father had only enough time to see a mounted, armoured knight coming at him, hear the ring of an unsheathing sword. That must have been the last memory seared into him before all sense, and his head, was driven from him at the fall of steel. His wife screamed, the son cowered, and the gathered villagers blanched as the corpse toppled into the mud.

‘Foolish answer,’ William remarked, then turned back to his captains. ‘Raze the cots, burn the fields, and kill all the men. Kill the women if you like, or only ride them down. We have not the time for rape.’

‘Aye, Your Grace,’ said the man again, grim-faced.

As ten or fifteen Normans broke off and rode forward, there was a cry of fear. ‘My lord! We are unarmed! We surrender! Please! Please!’

William raised a hand, and the advance halted. ‘What did you say?’

‘We surrender, my lord!’

‘You’re missing something.’

‘We surrender. Our sons are yours, our lands. Your Grace, please. We beg you.’

There was a terrible silence. Then William nodded. ‘Very well.’ To the knights, he said, ‘Burn the dead man’s house and plot. As for the rest, ask them to a man for their surrender. If he gives it, take his son. If he does not, take his life, and burn his holdings.’

After that, there was little further resistance.

We rode until nightfall, smoke rising into the sky behind us as fires charred the barren fields. There were about two dozen boys, myself, and James, and William set as bruising a pace as he could muster without scraping the captives off the back entirely. If the men drew too far ahead, he would send an outrider doubling back to spur us onward, and it was dusk when we came to the head of the valley, fringed with the dark mouth of trees. The mist hung close and the moss ran deep, and it was there that we made camp. The men swung down and tied their horses, procured flint and tinder, and finally succeeded in catching a flame to the damp wood. Then they pulled out hunks of dried bread, hard cheese or withered apples, and congregated about.

As for the captives, they stayed huddled beneath the dark trees, exhausted, sullen, and fearful. James lifted me down, then reached for the boy. The poor thing was as small and frail as a newborn kitten, and when his feet touched earth, the first thing he did was to seize two grubby fistfuls of my skirt and bury his face in it. James was guiding the rest of the children to sit and share their cloaks and blankets, when I saw a few of the men coming our way. I grabbed James’ sleeve in warning, then assumed my empty stare.

Moments later, our visitors ducked beneath the leaves. Their mail and leather were damp, and they looked as weary as we felt. But their faces were kindly enough, and they were some of the older ones, who might have a family at home and look upon their child captives with a flicker of compassion. ‘Come,’ said one, the largest man I had ever seen – he stood head and shoulders above his companions, with thick reddish hair and beard. ‘The king wishes to speak to ye.’

The little one clinging to my skirts clutched harder. Nobody moved.

‘Come on, ye willna be hurt,’ said the man, gruff but gentle. He drew a lump of sugar from his pocket and held it out to one of the youngest boys. The lad hesitated, then reached out and plucked it. All of us watched him as he chewed, waiting for a thunderbolt to carve him down, or for him to clutch his throat and die of poison. But when neither came to pass, we consented to follow the soldiers out into the camp.

William sat on a boulder at the largest fire, tearing apart some dead fowl and chattering in the tongue I’d heard him speak before – French, it must be. He barked a question to one of his commanders, who showed him something on a map, and William attended intently, drinking from a gold-banded horn. But at the approach of his captives, he glanced up, swallowed, and stood. ‘Greetings,’ he said, switching back to Saxon for our benefit. ‘No doubt you’re hungry. There is bread and ale. Take.’

When no one moved, even though the repast was plainly visible in the open saddlebags, he smiled, but with an irritated edge, and gestured again. This at last prompted us to creep to the food, although no one wanted to come too close to him.

When there was no sound but munching, William spoke again. ‘You have been taken as seal of your parents’ fealty to the lawful King of the English, and you should give thanks for their good sense. You are their pledge to me, and I shall treat you as you merit. The elder of you have sworn to me, and if you are faithful and strong, there may be a knighthood in God’s time. The younger of you shall be given as serving-boys to my lords; thereupon they shall decide what is done with you. And so, if you think to run off, or fight back, or stab me while I sleep, you shall not find me half so merciful. You think yourselves ill-used, that is unmistakable. You miss your homes, that is understandable. You fear me, that is advisable. But that is something you will learn when you grow up. If you grow up. Well. I have no further need of you now. You are at liberty to find sleeping-quarters for the night. You will be required early, so I suggest you do so.’

He paused again, and when we did not move, he said, ‘That was not a request. That was your first order. I suggest also you learn that.’

We learnt it.

It was a bitterly cold night. The wind whipped across the river, scattering dead leaves and rising to a sepulchral keen, and a raft of clouds swept the sky. Here and there they drew apart and the moon would wax clear, then in half a heartbeat be veiled again, ragged and eerie as a drowned lord’s banners. Mist steamed from the forest floor, and the horses stamped at their tethers. James had succumbed to weariness, head in my lap, and I shielded him with my cloak. But instead of sleeping, I watched William. From where we were, he was only a few yards shy, though the curtain of wet leaves precluded him from seeing us. He sat on his rock, long legs outstretched, his battered riding boots almost touching the fire. Then and odd it would flare a sudden life, but the leather was much too damp to take a spark, much less flame.

William regarded the embers in intense thought, as if searching for an augury. His brow was high, with a certain Teutonic cast in the sharpness of the nose and the set of the strong mouth. He was very handsome, raw and striking, but there was no kindness in him, no softness. Only a pride and arrogance as brilliant as the fire in his hair.

William rested his bracer-shod arms on his knees and looked up at the few stars that got through the gloom. After a time he reached for his sword, laid it on his lap, pulled a cloth from his belt, and began to polish it. It was a magnificent thing, steel folded into a broad-bladed greatsword, fitted in a heavy leather scabbard inset with cloisonné and gilt, rich beyond knowing and just as well-used. There was a familiarity as if between old friends, and it was clear from the way that William handled it that he cherished it. It was the only tenderness I imagined him capable of showing, this love between warrior and the weapon he had used to water the field of Hastings with good Saxon blood.

I wondered if he had murdered King Harold by his own hand. Certainly the sin of regicide must mark one for hell – but if Harold had been forsworn, as was sometimes whispered, then was it worthy of canonisation instead? There was much I wished to ask the theologians, although few who would have answered me. After all, was it not the weak and seducible nature of woman that had led to man’s expulsion from Paradise?

I was jerked from my reverie by the sound of sharp cracks – William was breaking sticks over his knee and casting them into the fire, cursing when they failed to catch. I noted from the words he was using that he’d certainly learnt them from the Saxons among his army, and that was strange to think. My own countrymen. They would have fought against him not so long ago, under a different banner, a different crown. But when the carnage was over, the new king had offered them a chance to avoid a traitor’s death, to return home in glory. All they must do was swear that they had made a grave error, but they had been rescued from their foolish ways and would wholeheartedly support the Lord’s chosen sovereign.

I wondered if such a thing was easy for a man. Had they followed Harold because they had to, conscripted to the crown, and turned their cloaks to whoever lived to pay them? Or had they believed him, marched to battle ready to die for him, and afterwards taken the oath with fingers crossed, so they might live to see their sons grow up? It was not the housecarls, for certainly they had all perished rather than yield to an usurper’s command. But might the fyrdmen, the citizens, have done so without guilt? Was a false oath to a false-made king still a damning offence? I did not understand. But I wished to.

As I sat in the freezing wood on that never-ending night, it occurred to me that there was one other thing which Scripture had forgot. Much they spoke of woman driving man from his rightful home, as if it were the sole cause for all the inheritance of sin in our race. But they were silent on whether it was right for man to drive woman from hers.

Morning came at last, grey and pale, and a brightness touched my face. I did not realise I had fallen asleep until that moment, and came awake with a start. The men were clapping frost from their gloves, stamping and shouting, surrendering their blankets with a groan, and William was going about the camp himself, personally rousting out the slow ones. He poured a dram of wine to inaugurate the morning, and drank it all at a pull, wiped his mouth, and slung the horn on his belt. ‘I want to make Dover by nightfall. Will fitz Osbern is to meet us there with the rest of the force and their captives.’

‘Dover? Is it not reputed to be held by a great host?’

‘Does that concern you?’ William threw back. ‘It was supposed to be mine, before Harold broke another promise.’

‘Aye, but we’d best hope Fitz Osbern is there, there’s no way we can take Dover alone. And it’s a hard day’s ride at the least,’ another protested. ‘Perhaps we should – ’

William reared up like a viper. ‘Dover,’ he snarled. ‘Do you question me?’

‘No, Your Grace. Never.’

‘We ride within the hour. Make the men and captives ready.’

‘Aye, Your Grace. As you command.’

It was as William had ordered. As we made ready to go, he told us that anyone who fell off would be taken as causing trouble, and dealt with accordingly. Then he kicked his stallion into a trot, and led the host down the riverbank.

It was midmorning by the time we won clear of the forest. The sky was still thick with clouds, but there was a clearing in the north, hints of blue behind tatty edges. Terraced hills fell into a long vale, and in the distance, the sun struck an iron glint from the sea. William seemed pleased, of which I was in no doubt despite being some lengths away from him. He possessed a commander’s gift much greater than sword-skill – a voice that could be heard across chaotic battlefields. ‘We’ll ride until noon and pause briefly. Those who go too far afield will be shot.’ And with that merry injunction, we were moving again.

I doubted William had much to fear from his captives running off. They were not yet kin to the defiance that would lead them to test his will, were too young to strike out into the wilderness and think they could live more than a few days alone. They had no weapons, no food, small chance of finding their way; if they were lucky, they might come across a kindly farmwife, but that was no certainty, and there were others abroad who would not be as forgiving. The elder ones might know something of woodcraft, and something more of pride, but there was time later to slip out. Here there was nothing but open country, any escapee an easy mark for the archers

We went hard. The sun did manage to break through, but the wind was sharp and my dress had never dried, and the night of half-sleep had left my muzzy mind wandering. Every so often the weight of my head tilting snapped it up again, and James would be hauling me back. ‘Don’t fall off, Aislinn,’ he hissed. ‘You heard him.’

I nodded groggily, and thereafter took better care to mind myself. I focused instead on the pain, for the jolting was unbearable. The Roman road had once been paved, but was fallen into disrepair. The stones that remained were cracked, and mud splattered us with every stride. I was not sure how much longer I could stay in the saddle, and I was also anxious for the little boy, who had been barely moving all morning and seemed too hot to my touch. No doubt the men were used to riding for hours at a time, but the children were not. When noon came and went without even a sign of a halt, we dropped further and further behind. ‘James!’ I hissed.

James startled. ‘What?’

‘Get the children to hurry, quick,’ I said nervously. The captives’ horses had all fallen out of order, and a few had stopped to crop grass.

James groaned and turned in the saddle. Surely he would have thought of something, but I never knew what. For at that moment, the little one went limp and slid halfway off before I could catch him. My balance shifted, and then something spooked the horse, and the world went upside down, sky and ground spinning over like a Catherine-wheel, and I had enough sense to twist about so I would not break my neck. My foot caught in the stirrup and I had a terrifying thought that I would be dragged, but managed to wrench free. I landed on my back, clutching the boy.

The horse was still at a start from whatever had frightened it, and James was desperately sawing at the reins to bring it about. It was clear he was a crofter’s son, not a soldier, but after a burst of frantic industry, he turned back in our direction. He sprang down and raced over to us, but he soon saw that I had not broken any bones, nor yet been damaged worse than knocking out my wind and getting a rich loam of mud all over my dress and cloak. Well, it had been damp already, some mud could do no worse.

‘Aislinn – ’ James snapped. ‘We need – ’

‘He’s not well,’ I said urgently, rolling the boy over. ‘Look.’ The small face was pale as a wraith, and his forehead was burning. His eyes shifted restlessly, sweat gleaming on his cheeks.

James raked a hand through his hair, the same deep mulberry-red as mine. ‘No, he’s not, but what in the devil are we supposed to do? Tie him to the horse, or – ’

The boy’s eyes slitted open a crack. His dry lips parted, and then he rolled to one side and was sick in the grass. I spat on my sleeve and dabbed his mouth clean. ‘Fetch me some water,’ I told James. ‘My herbs, quick. The fever’s running high.’

‘Are you mad? You have a good heart, but you can’t. It’s too dangerous.’

At that moment there was a frightened murmur from the children, and James went stiff. My hackles bristled, and when I glanced up, I saw what I knew I would. William sat on the hill-crest with a face like thunder, flanked to each side by five archers. Each of them had an arrow nocked and drawn, and each of these were brought to bear on us.

‘What,’ said William, soft and lethal, ‘did I say about trouble?’

‘Jesú, it’s the idiot girl. Corbin was right, we should have fucked her and left her.’

James raised his hands. ‘Your Grace, mercy. The boy is grave ill.’

At this, a few dark looks were exchanged, and the rest of the men, who had ridden up behind, frowned at the small body. ‘He’s just a wee mite,’ said one of the soldiers – the kind one, the big man who had given the sugar. ‘Perhaps Your Grace shouldna – ’

William’s eyes flared. ‘I should not have what, Eoghan? Pray share with us all how your wisdom so great surpasses my own.’

The soldier realised at once that he had strayed into forbidden ground. ‘I beg ye forgive me, Your Grace. I just. . . he is a wee one, and his da so keen to have him stay. . .’

‘The boy is here, it is worse than useless to wish it had been different. Christ’s blood, what a fool I was to bother with children. I should have had them drowned.’

‘Your Grace,’ James said. ‘You gave us your word that we would be kept safe if we caused no trouble. The boy’s ill, he cannot be faulted for that.’

William glared at him. There was a creaking of bowstrings, and I moved forward nervously, as if I thought my body could shield the boy’s.

‘The lad’s right,’ Eoghan ventured. ‘It would bode gey poor, Your Grace, if ye – ’

‘Silence, damn you!’ William bawled. ‘Am I to be lectured on the tender mercies of children when I have a kingdom to win? I’ll hear no more of it! Put the sickling brat back up and if he lasts to Dover, you can get your matronly feathers in a fuss all you wish. If there is another delay, I shan’t be as lenient. Get moving.’

I stared after William a long moment as he wheeled his horse around and cantered off, then bent down to gather the boy into my arms, a frail knit of bones. He was so light, light as a feather, and I could feel the sick heat coiling from his skin.

James glanced uncertainly at me. ‘Well?’

‘Fetch the horse,’ I said tightly.

CHAPTER THREE: The Breaking of Dover Castle

I thought that ride would never end. My memories of it are of jarring, fiendish cramps in my back and legs, mud drenching my skirts, James’s arms about my waist and mine round the child, who was fading like a snowflake on the tongue. The clouds were gossamer, the wind gusting, and it was late afternoon by the time we arrived. Gulls wheeled above the waves, which crashed against the cream-coloured cliffs. A great stone bulwark, a pair of Roman lighthouses enclosed by a curtain wall, dominated the bluff, and at first, I thought its defenders were riding to take us on. We could see the dark figures sweeping toward us, feel the tremor in the ground.

I had only half a moment’s time to be frightened before William brought us to a halt, then cupped both hands to his mouth and bellowed something in French. This was answered by the leader of the second company, and a thunderous cheer rocked the sky. This must be the rest of them, God help us. It was certainly a vast reinforcement, nine hundred men or more. Already the soldiers were shouting and reining up, and it was here that I came acquainted of the second of a surfeit of Williams, for that name was also claimed by the leader of the newcomers, William fitz Osbern. He was a ruddy, good-humoured man, hale and hearty but some years the king’s senior, with silver in his beard and a booming laugh. ‘It’s you then, Your Grace?’

William grinned, the first true smile I had seen from him, and I thought that the two of them must be very old friends indeed. ‘It appears to be, wouldn’t you say? But never mind that. How did you on lads? My findings were miserable and in haste.’

‘Well, Your Grace, you did insist on going ahead with the outriders,’ said Fitz Osbern, with an expansive shrug. ‘To gain a better sense of the country, not mind with – ’

‘I do not need my own strategy fed back to me like porridge,’ William snapped. ‘Answer the damned question, Will.’

‘Ahem. It went rather well, by my humble calculations. We made call at fifty crofts and finished with three-and-forty lads, for in the others there were only daughters or infirm fools. But a good dozen above thirteen, the rest nearly ten. You’ll be pleased.’

‘Really.’ William sounded mildly impressed. ‘I ought have marked you more closely, for all I found was every babe, weakling, and imbecile in the whole of England. If such are its soldiers made of, small wonder they could mount but feeble resistance.’

‘And soon to be feebler,’ said Fitz Osbern, with relish.

William smiled sardonically. ‘That reminds me. Where is the legendary force of Dover Castle? They’ve been waiting for some time to piss themselves. Pity to stop them.’

With that, he turned about to face the host. It was in that