Stewart Binns - Conquest

By midday the next day, the messengers were long gone and Hereward’s force was on the march.

At Einar’s recommendation, it had been agreed that the family, protected by a small group of housecarls under the command of the thegn Hogor, would camp at a place called Clitheroe Hill, an isolated knoll with commanding views over the heavily wooded valley of the Ribble. It would serve as the rear encampment for the approach to York, with a forward camp further into the Pennines at Einar’s birthplace, the fortified hilltop settlement at Skipton, only two days’ ride from York. The baggage train, supplies and treasury would remain on Clitheroe Hill, from where, should things not go well at York, a speedy retreat was possible into the surrounding fells.

As they made their way eastwards, the ground rose and became more remote. Other than a small settlement of monks and peasants at the Abbey of Whalley, they saw no one between Preston and Clitheroe. The only significant presence was the great cowl of Pen Hill, which glowered at them whenever there was a clearing in the forest. Einar said it was a place of worship for those who still followed the old religion and that Druid sacrifices to the old gods were made from its summit. Hereward paid little attention to the stories, but thought the presence of the massive hill might be propitious. He also knew it was a perfect lookout, should a tactical retreat be needed in the next few weeks.

The parting at Clitheroe was a heart-rending affair. Martin and Einar warmly embraced Ingigerd and Maria, while Gwyneth and Wulfhild, in floods of tears, tugged at their tunics imploring them not to go. To Alphonso’s great embarrassment, Cristina too burst into tears. Hereward picked up his girls, one on each arm. Their beauty and boisterous personalities reminded everyone of Torfida.

Hereward smiled at his precious offspring. ‘Kiss your father goodbye; the men are waiting. I love you both very much.’

The girls spoke in unison and in perfect harmony. ‘We love you too.’

Both girls kissed their father and then joined the others. Hereward mounted his horse, rode up to the head of the column and signalled for it to move off. Edmund unfurled Hereward’s standard: in black, on a gold background, was the twin-bladed Great Axe of Göteborg. Below, in crimson, over the shaft of the axe, was the circular shield of a Saxon housecarl, crossed by two black swords. Each squadron leader carried pennons on their lances in the new colours – gold, crimson and black – the colours of the Talisman and of Hereward’s own battle-shield. As the wind blew from the Pennines, the standard of Hereward of Bourne flew proudly in the cool air of a fresh March day.

Ahead of them was York, the city that Hereward hoped would soon be the new capital of a resurgent England.

When they arrived in the city, the streets of York reverberated with wild rejoicing. Hereward’s clarion call had been heard and the city was full to bursting with people celebrating as if a thrilling victory had been snatched from the jaws of a tragic defeat. There were camps in the woods and fields around the city, men slept in the streets, and the taverns began to run short of mead and beer. The celebrations went on for days.

Edgar the Atheling, who had arrived from Scotland, as requested, with several hundred of King Malcolm’s Scottish warriors, was paraded around the streets to wild cheering. It was remarkable that a Cerdician atheling was being greeted with such enthusiasm in Anglo-Danish Northumbria, the most Scandinavian of all England’s settlements.

Cospatrick, the Earl of Bamburgh, had arrived with a force of over 500 men; Maerlesvein, the Sheriff of Lincoln, brought 300; Earl Waltheof, a senior earl from the East Midlands, brought 200; and Siward Bjorn, a wealthy thegn from Nottingham, contributed 100 to the growing ranks. Eadric the Steersman and Aelfwold of St Benet at Holme, both men from East Anglia, brought 100 men between them. Not counting the fickle Scots, Hereward estimated that, including his own men, the English force was now 1,600 strong; not enough to meet William head-on, but it was a beginning. If they could consolidate in York, a march south could swell their ranks to many thousands.

In his private thoughts, Hereward estimated that he needed 6,000 men to meet William in a full-scale battle. He presumed that William could not muster many more than that in one place, for fear of losing strongholds that he had already established. Disappointingly, Edith Swan-Neck had not appeared. William’s men were watching her closely and, following the rising at Durham, she had not dared to travel north.

In any case, events in York were certainly worthy of celebration.

English morale had been given a vital boost.

Hereward called a Council of War and insisted that Edgar, as heir apparent, preside.

Bowing to Edgar, Hereward began. ‘Sire, your presence here is the vital piece in our game of chess with William. Our war with William has not yet begun – and must not, until we are stronger.’

‘On whose authority do you speak here, Hereward of Bourne?’

Shaken by this unexpected dissent from Cospatrick, Earl of Bamburgh, Hereward hesitated for a moment before continuing. ‘Well, my Lord of Bamburgh, I was asked by Edith Swan-Neck to lead a revolt on behalf of Edgar the Atheling, heir to the throne of England.’

‘Edith Swan-Neck does not have authority here in Northumbria.’

‘No, but I do!’ Maerlesvein spoke with barely concealed fury. ‘When Earl Morcar was defeated at Gate Fulford by Hardrada, King Harold appointed me Governor of Northumbria until he could speak to Morcar about the earldom. As Harold is now dead, my authority here still stands. So, with Prince Edgar’s permission, I give Hereward authority to lead this Council.’

Edgar nodded his approval and Hereward continued.

‘Thank you, Maerlesvein of Lincoln.’ He turned to Cospatrick. ‘My Lord Earl, now is not the time for us to argue. Do I have your support?’

‘Yes, but let us be clear – neither I nor my men will go scurrying south in the futile hope of removing William from the throne of Westminster. The Saxon earls have lost that battle. Wessex, Kent, East Anglia – those earldoms have gone to the Normans. Don’t expect the Northumbrians to get them back for you. What we will fight for is a kingdom here in York. I’m not sure Prince Edgar is the right choice to rule here but, if he has the support of the Danes and Malcolm Canmore, then I suppose that’s who it must be.’

‘Allow me to thank my Lord Bamburgh for such a heartfelt endorsement,’ the young Prince interjected.

His sarcasm lessened the tension a little, but it did not thwart Waltheof, Earl of the East Midlands.

‘The Earl of Bamburgh is a fool! What’s more, he’s always been a fool. He’s got a nerve to stand here and talk to us about Saxon defeats. First of all, after the Northumbrians and Mercians had been taught a lesson by Hardrada’s Norwegians at Gate Fulford, it was King Harold’s army, largely composed of housecarls from the earldoms of the South, which routed the Norse at Stamford Bridge!’

Men shouted at one another as the Council split between North and South, each faction accusing the other of cowardice and treachery.

Earl Waltheof raised his voice above the din, despite Hereward’s attempts to stop him. ‘My Lords, consider who was missing from Senlac Ridge! Cospatrick for one…’

The Council began to resemble a riot.

Waltheof, his blood up, screamed, ‘… And those other cowards – Edwin and Morcar – who are, at this very minute, licking the fat arse of William the Bastard!’

Swords were drawn and axes raised as men closed in on one another. The gathering was in danger of turning into a civil war rather than a council of war, when, with a deafening crack, Hereward slammed the Great Axe of Göteborg into the middle of the high table. The rapidly advancing factions stopped in their tracks and silence replaced the mayhem.