Robert Lyndon: Hawk Quest

In the eleventh century Danes, Norwegians, Swedes and Icelanders still spoke mutually intelligible languages related to English. With some effort, an Anglo-Saxon would have been able to understand a Scandinavian speaker.

1054

The Great Schism between the Latin and Greek Churches

1066

September

King Harold of England defeats a Norwegian army at Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire

October

William of Normandy defeats Harold’s army at Hastings in Sussex

December

William is crowned King of England

1069-70

After a revolt in northern England, William leads a punitive expedition into Northumbria and devastates the country between York and Durham

1071

August

A Seljuk army under Alp Arslan — ‘Valiant Lion’ — routs the forces of the Byzantine Emperor at Manzikert, in what is now eastern Turkey. The victory opens up Anatolia to the Seljuks and leads ultimately to the First Crusade

1072

June

King William invades Scotland

November

Alp Arslan is killed by a prisoner while on campaign in Persia

England, 1072

That morning a Norman cavalry patrol had captured a young Englishman foraging in the woods south of the River Tyne. After interrogating him, they decided he was an insurgent and hanged him on a high hill as a warning to the people in the valley below. The soldiers waited, hunched against the cold, until their victim’s spasms stopped, and then they rode away. They were still in sight when the circling carrion birds flocked down and clustered on the corpse like vicious bats.

Towards evening a group of starving peasants crept up the hill and frightened off the birds. They cut down the corpse and laid it on the frozen ground. Eyes, tongue, nose and genitals were gone; its lipless mouth gaped in a silent scream. The men stood around it, billhooks in hand, exchanging neither looks nor words. At last one of them stepped forward, lifted up one of the dead man’s arms, raised his blade and brought it down. The others joined in, hacking and sawing, while the crows and ravens skipped around them, squabbling for scraps.

The carrion birds erupted in raucous panic. The human scavengers looked up, frozen in acts of butchery, then rose with a gasp as a man came over the crest. He seemed to emerge from the earth, black against the raw February sky, a sword grasped in his hand. One of the scavengers shouted and the pack turned and ran. A woman dropped her booty, cried out and turned to retrieve it, but a companion grabbed her by the arm. She was still wailing, her face craned back, when he bundled her away.

The Frank watched them disappear, his breath smoking in the bitter air, then ran his sword back into its scabbard and dragged his skinny mule towards the gibbet. Even filthy and travel-worn, he was an intimidating figure — tall, with deep-set eyes and a jutting nose, unkempt hair coiling around a gaunt face, his cheekbones weathered to the colour of smoked eelskin.

His mule snorted as a crow trapped inside the corpse’s ribcage thrashed free. He glanced at the mutilated body without much change of expression, then frowned. Ahead of him, pale in the twilight, lay the object that the woman had dropped. It seemed to be wrapped in cloth. He tethered the mule to the gibbet and walked over, stretched out one foot and turned the bundle over. He looked into the wizened face of a baby, only a few days old, its eyes tight-shut. His mouth pursed. The baby was alive.

He looked around. The carrion birds were beginning to settle again. There was nowhere to hide the baby. The birds would be swarming over it as soon as he left the summit. The merciful thing to do would be to end its suffering now, with one sword thrust. Even if its mother returned, the baby wouldn’t survive the famine.

His eye fell on the gibbet. After a moment’s indecision, he lifted the baby in his arms. At least it was well swaddled against the cold. He trudged back to his mule, opened a saddlepack and took out an empty sack. The baby gave a grizzling sound and its mouth moved in reflexive sucking gestures. He placed it in the sack, mounted his mule and tied the sack to the end of the hangman’s rope, above the reach of wolves. It wouldn’t keep the birds off for long, but he guessed that the mother would return once he’d left the hill.

He smiled a wintry smile. ‘Hanged before you’re a week old. If you live, you might make a reputation for yourself.’

The birds flared up again as another man shuffled onto the ridge. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the gibbet.

‘Hurry up,’ cried the Frank. ‘It will be dark soon.’

Watching the youth approach, the Frank shook his head. The Sicilian was a walking scarecrow. Another night without food or shelter might finish him off, but the only place they would find bed and board would be among the men who’d hanged the wretched Englishman.

The Sicilian reeled to a standstill, eyes dark and dull in his bloodless face. He stared at the ruined corpse and made a sound of disgust.

‘Who did that?’

‘Starving peasants,’ said the Frank, taking the mule’s reins. ‘They were still here when I arrived. It’s lucky it wasn’t you who was leading the way.’

The Sicilian’s eyes skittered in all directions and settled on the sack.

‘What’s that?’

The Frank ignored the question. ‘They won’t have gone far. For all I know, they’re lying in wait for us.’ He led the mule away. ‘Stay close unless you want to end up in a cooking pot.’

Exhaustion rooted the Sicilian to the spot. ‘I hate this country,’ he muttered, so weary that he could only form thoughts by articulating them. ‘Hate it!’

A faint mewing made him lurch back in fright. He could have sworn that it came from the sack. He looked for the Frank and was alarmed to see his outline already sinking below the horizon. The sack mewed again. Birds fell out of the stone-dead sky, black tatters landing all around him. One of them hopped onto the corpse’s skull, cocked an eye at him and crammed its head into the yawning maw. ‘Wait!’ cried the Sicilian, wobbling over the grisly summit in pursuit of his master.

The Frank hurried into the dying light. The ground began to slope away and the outlines of distant hills came into view. Another few steps and he sank to his haunches, looking into a wide valley. Shadows flooded the river plain and he might not have spotted the castle if it hadn’t been so new, its whitewashed timber keep still showing the wounds of the axe. It was tucked between the confluence of two tributaries, one flowing from the north, the other looping from the west. He traced the course of the river until it vanished into the darkness rising in the east. He rubbed his eyes and took another look at the castle. Norman without a doubt, laid out in a figure-of-eight, the keep perched on a motte within its own stockade, the hall and a scattering of smaller buildings occupying the lower enclosure. Not a bad position, he thought. Protected by rivers on two sides, each tributary spanned by an easily defended bridge.