The North September 1069
In Essex the geburs of the village were busy in the late autumn heat with their post-harvest tasks. Grain was being threshed on the stone-flagged village threshing-floors, men wielding flails high overhead and striking hard. Periodically the women and older children would collect the resulting mixture of grain and chaff to winnow by tossing into the air to allow the wind to blow the dross away.
The autumn ploughing had been delayed to allow the villagers to harvest the salt that had now accumulated in the saltpans located on Alresford Creek, Barfleet Creek and on the estuary itself, this being one of the more urgent tasks as it was the principal cash-crop for the region and one long soaking rain would again turn the dried salt back into brine, with the loss of the entire year’s harvest. The gathered salt was then cleaned, bagged and taken to the salt-house owned by Alan for storage and later processing. The women of the village were also busy in the evenings drying and preserving fruit and making jams and pickled vegetables for use during the winter, while most of their menfolk spent their time after sundown at the village tavern.
Within a few weeks the Autumn Killing would commence, when the livestock which the village had not sold but would not be able to feed over the harsh winter would be slaughtered and the meat smoked, dried or pickled. All knew that Michaelmas, the 29th of September and the next Quarter Day when taxes and rents would be paid, was fast approaching, causing some concern as those with financial obligations rather than the simple provision of labour days sought to accumulate the goods and funds required to pay their obligations
Those in the New Hall at Thorrington were also busy, but on matters of war and not agriculture.
Herfast had sent the men requested by Alan. As required, they were stout, reliable men and all fluent in Danish or Norwegian. Alan had eighteen suitable men of his own who were prepared to leave home indefinitely and pursue the fight against the Danes. Many of these men had been refugees from the slaughter of the Danish raid in Lexden and Winstree Hundreds two years before and were anxious to do what they could to achieve some retribution.
It was Wednesday 23rd September, two days after their departure on the Feast of St Matthew the Evangelist, when Sven Knutson carefully guided the snekke Havorn towards the docks of York, with Alekrage with captain Lars Erikson at the helm following close behind. The oarsmen were singing a Danish rowing chant as they hauled at the oars. Speaking in English had been banned on the ships, with the crews being required to converse in Norse. Any breach was met by the penalty of a fine of a week’s pay.
A pall of dirty gray smoke hung over the city. As they got closer they could see that most of the city had been razed to the ground. St Peter’s Minister was a charred ruin, as were both castles. “What in God’s name has happened?” said Alan to Sven in English, earning a sharp look from the helmsman as they rowed past the still smoking remains of the two castles, one on each side of the river. “Surely the Danes didn’t burn the city?”
The taciturn Viking gave a shrug in reply and steered the ship towards the wooden wharf on the north bank of the Ouse River, just south of the still intact Ouse River Bridge. The wharf itself hadn’t burnt, although the warehouses located nearby hadn’t been as fortunate. There were no ships tied up at the wharf, nor sitting at anchor further out in the dock. With no ships or warehouses the usually bustling docklands were virtually deserted. Havorn carefully approached the wharf, the oarsmen backing water to allow a crewman to jump from the bow onto the wharf and then receive and secure the heavy mooring ropes thrown to him. Alekrage dropped anchor further out. With a brief word of instruction in Danish to Alan and the others to stay with the boat and keep their mouths shut, Sven and one other man jumped onto the wharf and disappeared off down Coppergate.
He returned a little over two hours later and hailed Lars to come over from Alekrage so that he wouldn’t need to repeat what he had to say. About half of the crew of Havorn were on the wharf, ostensibly stretching their legs and relaxing but in fact on guard with weapons handy and making sure that nobody approached the ship. Alan noticed a suspiciously strong smell of ale in the air when Sven leaned close.
“Goddam stupid Normans,” he said in English, after a glance about to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “On the 19th the Normans heard that the Danes were coming, so to prevent them from using the houses close to the two castles for material to fill in the ditches, they set fire to the houses to make a clear space. The fire near the old castle got away and burnt down most of the town on that side of the river.” Alan though it a little strange that the locals referred to the castle built to the north of the river as the ‘old castle’ and that built on the opposite southern bank the ‘new castle’, given they had been raised only a few months apart and even the northern castle was barely a year old. “Even St Peter’s Minister was burnt down. Two days ago the English and Danish armies arrived, stormed the castles and slaughtered nigh on everybody.”
“So much for William Malet’s boast they could hold out for a year,” said Alan in a derisive tone. “I suppose he’s dead?”
“No. He and his family and Gilbert de Ghent were taken captive. Nearly all the rest were killed either in the fighting or afterwards. One of the informants I was pouring beer into kept carrying on about Waltheof and how he slew so many foreigners. It seems the damn man has hired a skald, Thorkell Skallason, to write an epic poem!”
“Did the people of York join in the fight? And if so, on which side?”
“Well, they’d just had their city burnt down by the Normans so I assume they weren’t very friendly to the king. But from what I hear those who hadn’t already left to live with relatives after their houses were burnt down just stood back and watched. When you have 5,000 men pour over the walls and swarm down two castles in a matter of hours, keeping quiet and out of the way is the best thing you can do!”
“I suppose so. What of Ealdred, the Archbishop? How did he feel about the cathedral being burnt down? He’s been a staunch supporter of King William these last few years.”
Sven gave a snort of amusement and replied, “You’d have to ask St Peter himself the answer to that one. Or Lucifer, depending in which direction he went! He died a week before the city was attacked, just a few days after the Danes landed on the coast.”
“What’s the situation in York? Are there many rebels about?”
“No. They took what little booty the fire had left and marched away. After all, who’d want to stay and defend a burnt-out ruin? I’m sure they thought that King William is welcome to what little is left!”
“Were you able to find where they marched?”
“Of course! They went where you’d think. The earls and their men went north-east, probably to Durham again. As to the Danes, well I’ve had conflicting stories about where their ships are, and you never find Danes or any other Norseman far from his ship. I’ve heard they’re south-east at Skegness or north-east at Hartlepool or Scarborough. North-east would make more sense as that keeps them close to the Aetheling’s men and we didn’t see any sign of them as we sailed north past Skegness. We were keeping a low profile and not looking for trouble on the way up here, but I’m sure we’d have seen some sign of the Danish fleet as we passed if they were at Skegness.”
“How many are there?” asked Alan.
“How many fleas are there on a street-dog?” Sven replied with a shrug. “Enough to take York anyway. The word in the city is there were about 3,000 Danes and slightly more Englishmen. A lot of men have come to join the rebels from the Midlands, East Anglia and the south, as well as the Northumbrians. At least that means so as long as we’re away from the ship we won’t need to pretend we’re all Norsemen!”
“There’s a big difference in accent and dialect between Northumbria and Essex,” interjected Brand.
“True,” replied Sven. “But there’re so many Saxons from the south in the rebel army, mixing with Midlanders, Northumbrians, Scots, Danes- even a few Welsh and a few Irish- that you’d really have to draw attention to yourself to be noticed. But we need to remember that not many men from Essex could explain why they’re on a Danish longship, and keep our mouths firmly shut when we’re close to the ships.”
Alan nodded his agreement and said, “So, there appears to be no intention to either hold York against King William or attack him as he moves towards York, and that means we don’t need to try to make a report. So what do we do for the next week?”
Lars scratched at the thick blond beard on his chin and replied with a question, “What are we supposed to be doing up here?”
“A very reasonable question,” replied Alan. “One thing is to keep an eye on the Danes and let the king know whether they are. As Sven said they’re never far from their ships. If we know where the ships are, we know where the Danes are. As they’re half of the Aetheling’s army, the other half will be nearby. The other thing we do is to provide communication with the spies that the king has in the Danish and English camps. We’ll be quaffing ale in Durham, Hartlepool and Scarborough more often than in York, waiting for strange men in dark cloaks to approach us! One thing we need to look at is where do we base ourselves?”
After a long pause Sven replied, “I suggest Flamborough Head, at the far end of Bridlington Bay. It’s half way between the Spurn at the mouth of the Humber River and Hartlepool. It’s a very distinctive formation with chalk cliffs 300 or so feet high. Bridlington is a very small village some distance from the Head itself. I know a cave… several caves… just north of the point of the Head. The whole of Flamborough Head is riddled with caves. Several are at sea level between outcrops of rocks that jut out and provide protection from the weather. The gaps are only 50 or so paces wide but a good captain will have no difficulty,” he said with some smugness. “You can row your ships right into the caves, at least on the top half of the tide.”
“Where do we camp?” asked Brand.
“In the caves,” replied Sven with a shrug. “They’re dry- chalk cliffs. The local pirates have built living quarters, although with our numbers we may need to expand them a little. There’ll be dry wood gathered ready for us, as is the usual practice of ‘the Brethren’, and we’ll leave it as we found it. I doubt very much that with the Danes about that the local pirates will be in occupation. We’ll be neat and snug, and very well hidden.”
Alan was tempted to ask Sven about how he’d gained his detailed knowledge of the hiding places on the east coast. Instead he just asked, “How long to get there?”
Sven looked at the early-afternoon sun. “Down the Ouse to the Humber and out past the Spurn. We’ll have the outgoing tide to help us. Then north to Flamborough Head. I’ll get us there just before dark. At worst we can heave-to off-shore and spend the night at sea, but I’d suggest we get moving now if we want to have a fire and a cooked meal tonight.”
The sun was low in the western sky as Sven conned Havorn towards a gap in the chalk cliffs and gestured to Lars to take Alekrage into the darkness of the cave that loomed at the end of the narrow passage. The mast was lowered and Sven took Havorn a further thousand paces or so north and turned into another narrow passage. The tide was on the ebb and Sven shouted, “Pull you lousy bastards! Do just what I tell you or we’re all dead men! Larboard side, hold one oar-beat and resume! Hold! Row!” The ship passed into the darkness of the cave. “Now! Pull! Good! Good! Slow! Slow! Heave oars!” The ship grounded on sand inside the deep cave. “You and you, jump overboard and tie those ropes to the bollards over there. When the tide comes in later tonight, we’ll shift her further up. You lot, start carrying the bed-rolls and supplies over there. Light some damn torches so we can all see what we are doing! You! Run down the cliff-line to the cave Lars rowed into and tell him to come up here. No, you arsehole! It’s mid-tide so you can get there easily without having to climb the cliff! Just watch your step on the way back if it’s dark.”
Alan sat back and watched as the ship was tied up, aware that he had witnessed a virtuoso performance over the last few hours and that Lars was worth every shilling he received in pay, and more. The Norseman had driven the two ships fast downstream on the Ouse, using what late-autumn river flow existed, supplemented by the men at the oars. When the Ouse had joined the Humber, he’d used the outgoing tide and a westerly breeze to speed them along, resting the oarsmen as he knew they’d be needed later. The flat muddy banks of the river had sped by, then after passing the low sandy spit of the Spurn at the mouth of the river they had rowed north up Bridlington Bay with the ships rocking in an easterly swell that made it hard for the oarsmen to keep their beat and the landsmen to keep their stomachs in order. Alan had spent nearly two hours hanging over the lee side feeding the fish. He’d learned from past experience to avoid the weather side, so that the vomit wasn’t blown back in his face.
He took his pants and boots off before jumping over the low saxboard and onto the sandy ground to walk the few paces to dry land. Again, he’d leant in the past that a few moments of wind around the privates was better than hours spent wearing wet clothes. Boots took days to dry properly. You learn from past mistakes.
There was a small sandy beach inside the cave, now being lit by torches made of pitch-soaked moss held by the men. Beyond was a small area cut into the chalk walls of the cave. From what could be seen in the torchlight the cave appeared to be about sixty paces deep, twenty paces wide and thirty feet high. Just where sand met chalk, flame was being put to a pile of dried wood that had been left in place. Obviously the previous occupants had observed the usual local courtesies.
Supplies were being broached, meat being placed in pots with vegetables and put above the fire to cook. Smoke rose to the ceiling of the cave above their heads before trickling out of the cave mouth. A barrel of apples was broached along with a cask of ale. A table was set up and loaves of slightly stale bread from two days before, together with cheese and slices of smoked ham and jars of pickled vegetables, were placed on it for men to help themselves. Men were quickly claiming the sleeping places that had been cut into the chalk walls one above the other, three places high. Alan noted that Leof had appropriated two places and put their sleeping rolls in place, standing guard to ensure that none usurped them.
“Well done, Leof!” said Alan, giving the boy a gentle buffet on the shoulder.
The food was nearly cooked when Lars arrived and he and Sven spent considerable time talking quietly mouth to ear in Norwegian, with Alan only able to catch the occasional word- just enough to annoy him that he was being excluded from the conversation.
After they had finished eating Alan walked up to Sven and Lars and sat on a rock next to them, saying, “Right! The plan for tomorrow is we find where the Danes are. One ship goes north and one ship south. Rendezvous back here at night. When we know where they are we send a ship to sit and wait to hear from the spies. The idea is to have two ships, so that our ships aren’t hanging about like a bad smell and the spies aren’t seen talking to the same people all the time.”
“And who are these spies?” asked Lars.
Alan sighed. “Lars, you don’t need to know and you won’t know. If you knew we’d have to kill you! You’re ‘Transport’. I’m ‘Intelligence’- I hope. We’ll each do our own jobs, right? You and Sven put the ships in the right place at the right time. I’ll do the rest.”
Alan spent an uncomfortable night lying on a shelf cut into the cliff wall, which had several lumps in uncomfortable places. As he rose stiff and sore in the morning he promised to get himself a well-stuffed mattress and blanket that day. He chose to accompany Sven north to Hartlepool as he also thought that the Danes were unlikely to be at Skegness.
It was mid-tide and the ship had to be man-handled into the water using round logs of timber as rollers that were also apparently part of the fittings of the cave. With the ship safely afloat the twenty crewmen doubled up on the oars, using five oars a side, and followed Sven’s shouted instructions. Once out of the cave, even when still sheltered by the fingers of chalk that jutted out from the land and created a small natural harbour, the ship began to rise and fall in a heavy swell. As the southerly wind was trying to push the ship sideways some careful manoeuvring was needed to extract the ship from the narrow passage.
Despite the stiff breeze the air was heavy with the smell of bird-droppings and the sound of thousands of birdcalls. Looking at the cliff and the nearby rocks it was hard to tell what was chalk and what was guano. Whole sections of the cliff were absolutely smothered in birds, raucously pushing and shoving each other. Puffins, with their distinctive large red and orange beaks, could be seen hopping comically about on the rocks and flapping their short wings at a furious rate as they flew low over the water. Gannets, kittiwakes and guillemots were present in their thousands. The dark-plumaged adolescent gannets showed clearly against the white of the cliffs, while the adult birds dove from the air from surprising heights to plunge deep into the water to seize small fish. The puffins and guillemots were more circumspect, flying low over the water or floating before disappearing below the surface to use their short wings to ‘fly’ underwater as they chased their prey. High above the cliffs, riding the up-draughts, were several larger raptors waiting to swoop down and take the smaller birds. These were too far away for Alan to be able to make out their species. Skuas in their dark-brown plumage could be seen harassing other birds, trying to make them drop their catch, so that the skua or its mate could snatch an easy meal. Alan found the highly eroded cliffs quite remarkable with their stratified horizontal layers and pitted weathered appearance quite dissimilar to the chalk cliffs he had seen near Dover.
Just north of Flamborough Head, Filey Bay had a low coastline with a wide beach, open to the strong seas that swept in from the north-east, causing the coastline to erode westward year by year. Alan saw a small group of local people ‘bird fishing’ on the north side of the Flambourgh cliffs, standing on ledges below the cliff top and using hand nets a yard across and attached to stout poles to try to catch the low-flying birds.
Alan pointed them out to Sven who commented, “They’re catching puffins. Quite tasty and cook up well. They can be smoked, dried or salted for the winter. The gannets taste like shit- they’re too fishy.”
“Any risk of them locating our camp?”
“No. There’s a walkway along the top of the cliff, but we’re several miles from both Bridlington and Filey. There’s no reason for the villagers to go there. The only way anybody could get down the cliff would be on the end of a rope. The climb would be too dangerous. They know that there’s nothing there for them and that they may meet some men using the caves who prefer to have their presence unknown. No, we’re safe enough.”
The short voyage of about twenty miles north from Flamborough to Scarborough was quickly completed with a favourable wind filling the sail. As they sailed north they saw several snekke longships and the wider knarrer transports, mainly further out to sea. As they came up to the village they saw perhaps thirty snekke and knarrer drawn up bow-in onto the wide sandy beach.
“It looks like we’ve found the Danes,” commented Alan.
Sven snorted derisively and replied, “Lad, if there are 3,000 Danes, that means probably 100 ships, maybe more. We’ve found some of them, but I expect most are at up at Hartlepool at the mouth of the Tees River, where there’s a good natural harbour. It’s close to the English earl’s base at Durham and the river gives them access by ship deep into Yorkshire. I think we’ve another sixty miles or so to sail yet, laddie.”
And so it proved. As they sailed further north they saw more and more of the Danish warships and transport ships, so many and on such constant courses that Alan was sure that they were wearing a track in the sea between Hartlepool and Jutland. At Hartlepool the large natural harbour, one of the best on the north-east coast, was crowded with probably close on 100 ships.
At Sven’s shouted command the men lowered the sail, unshipped the oars and rowed for the last few minutes of careful manoeuvring amongst the ships crowded into the harbour. Alan ordered the ship to anchor offshore and was rowed to the wharf in a small sunnmorsf?ring four-oared rowing boat by Sven and three other Norwegians.
Once ashore he approached a fisherman who was sitting next to a small fishing boat. The old man, face weathered by years at sea and hands scarred by hauling on ropes, was mending his nets, dextrously weaving thick cord to repair the gaps torn in the net. He was happy to pass onto Alan the information as to where he may find ‘The Bull and Bear’ tavern, along with several recommendations as to which may the best tavern depending on whether you wished female company at a greater or lesser price, good food or a quiet place to drink good ale. None of these was ‘The Bull and Bear’, whose sole claim to fame appeared to be that it was the most expensive establishment in the town. Before entering under the sign of ‘The Bull and Bear’ Alan placed a red woollen cap on his head and a blue scarf about his neck before selecting a quiet small table in the corner, where he sat by himself.
He’d drained his first quart of ale and was part way through the second, needed to ‘rent’ the table, when he was approached by a very comely and buxom young lass with her long blond tresses flowing freely. “May I join you?” she asked in an arch manner and husky voice. Alan would have politely declined, but she had pulled from her sleeve a red handkerchief, the recognition signal he’d been alerted to by Herfast.
“By all means,” replied Alan, signalling to the barmaid for a pint jug of wine and two cups. When it arrived he poured, took a sip and shuddered, closing his eyes for a moment before saying, “I can’t recommend the wine, but the ale is reasonable. Would you like to eat? The serving-wench told me that they have roast pork and beef pies. Fine, we’ll have both. I’ll stay with the ale. You may wish to see what quality is the mead? No?” Turning to the aged serving-wench, who was wiping dirty hands on her apron as she stood waiting for an order, he instructed, “A quart of ale and a pint. Serves of pork and beef pie. Fresh bread and butter and cheese. Fruit.” He tossed her two silver pennies.
“I’m Gundred. Skald Thorkell Skalleson’s woman,” she said placing her hand on Alan’s and stroking it with an apparent fondness that was totally absent from the business-like expression in her eyes.
“My name is Alan. I’ve heard of the skills of your man as a bard, with his story of the exploits of Earl Waltheof.”
Gundred gave a laugh of genuine amusement. “Thorkell is good. He could make a shepherd look like a hero, if you paid him enough. I know not why Waltheof paid so much to have himself immortalised in poetry for his blood-thirsty deeds. He’s young, good-looking and is in fact an excellent warrior and leader.”
“Vanity, I suppose. It gets the best of many people. Now what can you tell me?”
Gundred looked about and paused as the drinks were delivered together with the pork pies and braised vegetables on wooden platters. Satisfied that the table chosen was sufficiently private and that the buzz of conversation around them would hide anything said from unwanted ears, she replied with candour. “Nothing that you couldn’t find out for the price of a few quarts of ale in any tavern. Edgar the Aetheling is with Cospatric, Waltheof, Maerle-Sveinn and Arknell at Durham, together with the Danish King Swein’s brother Osbjorn and his sons Harald and Christian, the bishop of Aarhus. His son Cnut is here with most of the men at Hartlepool.”
“How many men?”
“Danes, about 3,500- it varies as the men come and go as they wish. English, about 3,000 at Durham- mainly local huscarles and thegns and men from the south, about 1,000 of those. About another 4,000 from local levies that are at home at the moment. There are 2,000 Scots camped on the Tyne River.”
“And where’s Thorkell?”
“Where you’d want him to be. Sitting at Edgar’s table in Durham, eating his fancy food and drinking his fine French wine- and listening to everything the earls and the Danes say to each other. There’s no charge for what I’ve told you so far. You could’ve got that information in a few days yourself. But when he sends word that the Aetheling’s men are moving and where, he expects to be paid 200 gold marks. You are to have somebody here every Monday, Wednesday and Friday evening at dusk. Same recognition signals. When there’s something to report I’ll make myself known. Just make sure somebody is here for me to report to and that you can get the message to the Norman king in time for him to act.”
Alan shook his head in disagreement. “I’m sorry, but it’s not like we’re running a carting business from the next village. Firstly, this isn’t a game. I’ve brought twenty armed men into a town controlled by the enemy. You and Thorkell are planning on selling whatever information he obtains so that King William can defeat the Aetheling’s forces- which means thousands will die. If any of us are caught, we die- probably begging for the release of a cut throat after they’ve finished torturing us, and raping and then torturing you. Your end would not be pretty,” he said gently patting her on the cheek. He paused while the beef pies and another round of drinks were brought to the table by the serving-wench.
“This is no game,” he repeated. “I can’t just bring a snekke longship into the harbour whenever I feel like it. Yes, it’s a Danish ship and some of our crew are Norwegians, but if we hang around like a fart in a church somebody is going to notice and start asking questions. We can’t let our men go ashore and spend the night drinking and whoring like any proper sailor does, because some idiot will get drunk and say something that puts us all into deep shit. If they stay on board that’ll also be noticed, and the men will mutiny. Have you ever spent days, and more particularly nights, crammed together with twenty others in a ship so small and so encumbered that you can’t all lie down at once, and if you did lie down you’d be lying in two or three inches of stinking bilge-water that slops around in the bottom of the ship, eating cold stale rations, cold and probably soaked in rain, when within a stone’s throw are warm taverns and welcoming bordellos? And that assumes we can get here on time. We aren’t trundling a cart two miles. We’re sailing a hundred miles through unprotected and often violent seas- in autumn when the gales start. There’s every chance that we won’t be able to get here for a week or more at a time.
“Next, no we won’t meet in this same cosy tavern each time. If we come back again we’ll be recognised and after the third time the local gossips will be watching both of us. And they’d see me, who they’d think of as an Englishman, go back to a ‘Danish’ longship and you ride back to Durham to the arms of a man who spends his time at the Aetheling’s table. It wouldn’t take them long to start asking difficult questions.”
He paused and took a long pull at his quart of ale before continuing. “What we’ll do is try to have a ship here each Monday and Thursday. We have two ships and we’ll paint the stem post- that’s the post at the front of the ship- red, and the bottom three feet of the mast blue and leave an oar leaning against the yard. If one of them is in the harbour on the due day, or a day late, then go to the arranged meeting place. Also look for a rowing boat beached near the harbour steps. That’ll have a red strake painted second strake from the top. If that’s there, then it means that we’ve left the longship out of sight a little way up the river.
“As to the time of the meetings, it’s getting dark just before evening Vespers, but at this time of the year dusk comes earlier very quickly. We’ll make the meeting time at afternoon Nones, so we can get out of the harbour before dark, even in a month’s time. We’ll meet in a different place each time and set up that location at the previous meeting. Today is Monday 28th September, so Thursday will be the 1st of October. We’ll meet at St Hilda’s Church in the vestibule after the service. I’m sure that a little praying will be good for both of us. After that, and on each second visit, you’ll meet with Brand, who’s a blonde giant of a man- not that there’s any shortage of people who meet that description in a town filled with Danes. He’ll be wearing a blue kerchief on his head, sailor-fashion. You wear the same recognition signs as today. If a meeting is missed, and if the ship or rowing boat is in the harbour, go back same time next day. Otherwise for the following meeting go back to the previous meeting place whether the ships or rowing boat are there or not as something may have happened to require a change of plans.
“Remember, if you value your life, keep your mouth firmly shut and only talk to Thorkell where there is no possibility of you being overheard. Assume that every room you’re in has somebody with their ear pressed to the door- even your bedchamber. Develop a habit of going together for walks in the open, but don’t be silly enough to do that when it’s pissing down with rain. One mistake and you’re dead- and so am I. Now, I’ll ostentatiously hand you a small purse. We’ll leave with you hanging on my arm and groping my privates and me with a silly smirk of anticipation on my face! That should let us use this place again for a meeting in a few weeks time, if needed.”
Back on board Havorn the conditions were every bit as uncomfortable as Alan had indicated to Gundred. Sven had been absent from the rowing boat, so Alan had pulled on an oar on the passage back to the longship. Alan had thought about staying on-shore at an inn, but had decided that ‘leadership functions’ required him to share the hardships of the men. ‘At least I’ve had a decent hot meal and three quarts of ale’ he mused to himself as he stood on a storage chest and relieved himself overboard of part of the intake of fluids before adjusting his trews and having a brief talk to his men. As expected, they grumbled that they were sitting out in the cold, the blankets drawn about their shoulders becoming damp from the night sea air, and only having had cold smoked sausage and stale bread to eat.
“Life’s a bitch- and then you die,” said Alan with obviously mock sincerity in reply to the grumbled complaints. “Just be thankful you’re sitting here in the cold, because you are such useless bastards that when you die you’ll be sitting nice and warm in the fires of hell! Now get some sleep. Unless the wind changes tomorrow, you’re going to be rowing a hundred miles into the teeth of the wind- and that exercise should warm you up nicely!”
The following day was 29th September. Michalemas, the Feast of St Michael. Alan had the ship rowed into the beach an hour after dawn and gave the men three hours of shore-leave with just four men remaining on the ship as guards. “Now listen, you bunch of degenerates! It’s seven in the morning. You have three hours to have something hot to eat, something to drink and get a fuck. Some of you may even want to attend the church services. I’m sure the whores will be working even this early in the morning and even on Michaelmas. If you want to do the first three, you’ll have to be damn quick. I don’t think that you can manage all four. You get back here an hour after Terce, at mid-morning. You go in groups of four or five. You stay quiet and cause no trouble. You have no discussions with anybody as to who you are or where you are from or what you are doing. I don’t care if the Archangel Gabriel appears and asks you your name. If he does, tell him to fuck off! If anybody is late I’ll personally cut his balls off with a blunt knife! If anybody sees Sven, make sure he’s back here by Terce, even if you have to pour him into the ship. Now get going. You’re wasting your shore-time!”
Alan himself jumped over the side onto the dry sand at the ship’s bow and strolled the few paces into the town. Despite the early hour the festivities were already underway, with beasts being roasted over fires in the town square and food and drink stalls being set up. He walked into what appeared to be a disreputable tavern near the dock. The weather-beaten sign hanging over the door could hardly be made out to read ‘The Anchor’ and the peeling paint required a real effort of will and some imagination to discern the shape of an anchor in the space above the name.
Walking through the door Alan was hit by a smell of sour beer, stale urine and rotten rushes. He stepped carefully to try to avoid pools of vomit and dog-turds that littered the floor. Dim light filtered through the shuttered windows and fought bravely against the thick clinging smoke caused by a central hearth burning wet wood with no aperture in the roof to allow the smoke to escape. Alan could just see a number of recumbent forms snoring. Most appeared to be Danes or local fishermen.
Seeing a man seated by himself at a table, wearing a leather jerkin and breeches and with a red woollen cap, Alan walked over and sat next to him. A young serving-wench appeared. About twelve or thirteen years of age, she was dirty with her filthy and ragged shift sufficiently open at the breasts to allow them to be clearly discernable. Presumably she was part of the fare on offer. “Another pint of ale,” instructed the man. As the girl left the man said, “I’m Eadmer. For Christ’s sake don’t order anything to eat or you’ll shit for a week. And don’t drink the ale. They keep it in an open barrel and I saw a dead rat floating in it. Just pour it on the floor inconspicuously.” The ale arrived and was ignored.
“I’m Alan.”
Eadmer grunted in acknowledgement. After coughing several times from the smoke catching his throat Alan looked closely at the man who was King William’s Chief Spy in the north. The man was typically non-descript. Middle height, medium weight, light brown hair, no beard but with several day’s stubble on his chin. And with the coldest and most calculating brown eyes that Alan had ever seen. This man would cut your throat without a second thought- but only if needed, as corpses tended to draw unwanted attention. Aware he was in the presence of a professional of considerable ability, Alan ran through the intended contact procedures but eschewed the comments made to Gundred about security as they would be an insult to this man. The contact arrangements were made for the same day as with Gundred but earlier in the day and at more seedy establishments. In accordance with his instructions from Herfast Alan said nothing about Gundred, as the sources of information were to be treated separately and the information from each used to determine the accuracy of the other.
“Good,” said Eadmer briefly. “That all is simple, effective and allows for problems. I’ll still also use my usual communication methods. They’ll take longer, but at least if your ship sinks in a storm the information will still get there.”
A man walked in through the tavern door and sidled up to the bar. After a glance at him Eadmer continued, “You’re clear. Nobody followed you.”
“Thank you. But please only have your men follow me in the short distance until we meet. I’m seeing other people who you’re not to know about.”
Eadmer paused and inclined his head in agreement. “Separate sources of information are a good idea. And that way if I’m compromised it won’t affect your other source. Professional? No? Well, bear that in mind in both your dealings here in Hartlepool and the accuracy of the information.” Eadmer then began to give a detailed run-down of English rebel forces and a slightly less detailed account of those of the Danes and the Scots. Alan occasionally asked him to pause so that he could fix details in his mind. There would be no written notes that could potentially identify an important source. Alan had come to accept that in this very important but clandestine part of the war, that he and his men, together with Eadmer, Thorkell and Gundred, were all dispensable tools. But he was determined not to be dispensed with.
After quietly pouring away the last inch or so of ale in his leather pint jack onto the floor through a suitable gap in the poorly-constructed table, Alan gave Eadmer a nod and rose to leave.
He then spent the next two hours engaged in commerce. Despite the Quarter-Day holiday, a number of merchant’s shops were open, mainly Jews. Also open were the bakers, who worked every day of the year. Alan visited four bakers and bought virtually their whole stock of fresh bread and the pies that they had cooked as the ovens cooled. He also bought fifty pre-sewn but un-stuffed palliasses for the men to use as mattresses back in the cave, twenty bales of hay to stuff the mattresses, ten casks of ale, casks of smoked meat and fish, barrels of apples, sacks of dried vegetables and what little fresh fruit was available. Unfortunately the butchers were all closed for the holiday and he couldn’t obtain supplies of fresh meat.
He was back at the ship a little after the time he had nominated, but nobody complained as he was closely followed by carts bearing the purchases. All the crew were present, correct and reasonably sober- including Sven who had the drinking capacity of a camel. He’d spent the night at a tavern gleaning further scraps of information and was ‘bright eyed and bushy tailed’ when he appeared at the ship before the appointed time.
Heading south into a strong adverse wind, Havorn had to pull into the protection of a headland near Scarborough for the night, before continuing to row south next morning. Alan took several turns at the oars to show his ‘solidarity’ with the men. Sven didn’t bother as he had a different approach to leadership, and being receptive to every breath of wind or tug of current he minimised the work that the men had to undertake.
They arrived back at their cave at Flamborough Head a little after midday. Given the efforts that the men had made for the last day and a half Alan was prepared to give them a rest before they proceeded south to do the second part of their mission, to deliver the information they had received.
That evening, after the men had stuffed their palliases with straw, they enjoyed a meal of day-old bread with smoked ham, sausage, cheese, fresh fruit and boiled vegetables.
Three weeks later Alan was getting fractious and regretting more than ever that he’d allowed himself into being coerced into providing military service above his legal requirement for the year- and which had anyway been waived. The information collection procedures were working well, with regular contact with Gundred and regular and detailed reports from Eadmer. The problem was that York remained in rebel Anglo-Danish hands and there was nobody to whom they could pass on the information received. The king and his army had simply not appeared and from the little information available from the English and Danes in the taverns at York, it appeared as if there were no loyalist forces closer than Lincoln. Alan disliked having to find out information about the king’s forces from the enemy, although the weekly visits to York appeared to be raising no suspicions as they were used as shopping expeditions to purchase extra supplies and they had apparently been accepted by the locals as being pirates, which was an acceptable occupation on the north-east coast.
“Damn it all, where are William and his men?” Alan demanded in frustration as he sat on a flat rock eating a breakfast of porridge sweetened with honey.
“Something important must have come up,” commented Sven easily, as he dipped a piece of stale bread into a cup of mead and then popped it into his mouth. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. This is a pretty easy way to spend a campaign. Permanent dry quarters. Good and plentiful food. Two days of work a week for each ship, sailing up and down the coast to stop us getting bored.
Alan scowled at the accuracy of the complacent remark. Apart from the time actually spent ashore in the enemy-held towns there was little risk and life was easy- certainly much easier and less dangerous than being in an army on the march. However, he hated not knowing what was happening and was anxious to get back home to Thorrington where Anne would be nearing her time. After the problems with the last birth, where her life and that of the baby had only been saved by his intervention, he was determined to be home when her time came.
Two weeks later Alan sat at a table in the corner of the tap-room at the ‘Bull and Bear’ tavern at Hartlepool, sipping at a quart pot of ale. This was the second of the pre-arranged meeting times and places for the week for Gundred, skald Thorkell Skalleson’s woman. She hadn’t attended at the previous scheduled meeting, and Brand had told him when he’d returned to the hide-out cave from his journey north the previous week that the woman had also missed those two meetings. Until then the rendezvous system and exchange of information had proceeded well for six weeks, with Gundred making the short journey from Durham to Hartlepool at least weekly to meet with either Alan or Brand. Alan felt that her absence for over two weeks didn’t bode well for her, as with what she and her man were being paid to spy on the English earls and the Danes only serious illness or worse would keep her away.
Skald Thorkell Skalleson sat at table with the English earls and the Danish princes. The information that he had provided over the last few weeks, regarding the numbers and disposition of the rebels and the Danish invaders and the intentions of their leaders, had been sufficiently important that Alan was reluctant to simply drop the whole scheme. In wartime information was priceless and frequently meant the difference between winning and losing. Alan glanced out of an open window and saw that full darkness had now arrived. Gundred was over two hours late and obviously not going to arrive now that the town gates were being closed. He’d been carefully paying attention to the others frequenting the tavern that evening and had noted with relief that, other than several whores, nobody was paying him any attention. Given the difficulties he’d had in obtaining refills for his ale pot, that lack of attention had included the slatternly serving-wench.
With a muttered oath he rose slightly unsteadily and made his way down to the harbour where the rowing boat was waiting to take him back to the longship Havorn, which was moored against the river bank a mile upstream to keep the crew from getting into trouble. There he explained his concerns to Sven, the Norwegian captain.
Sven grunted an acknowledgement of the information imparted and after a long pause the taciturn Viking finally commented, “Why don’t you ask the other spy? You’re due to see him tomorrow. I’m sure that word would get out if the skald has been taken up for spying. Gundred may just be ill or have had an accident.” Alan nodded his agreement at this advice. Sven then continued, “By the way, I’ve arranged with Osbjorn’s steward for us to patrol to the south and receive regular supplies from the commissary, for both ships.”
Alan’s brain froze with amazement for several seconds before he could exclaim, “What in God’s name possessed you to do that? Why would you approach the local authorities when we’re spies?”
Sven snorted in derision. “Because they’re not stupid. A longship can slip in and out a few times without getting noticed, but one or the other of the ships are here nearly half the time. I told Henning that we camp up here because otherwise the crews get paralytic and start brawls, and it’s the only way to keep them under control. He can understand that. They knew we were here, but he just hadn’t gotten around to finding out who we were. Now he knows, or thinks he does, he won’t cause any problems. We get five barrels of ale, two barrels of ship-biscuit and two bushels of dried beans a day, and two pounds of meat per man per day, for both ships. We have to buy our own fresh bread and fresh vegetables. We also get paid a shilling a week for each man. He didn’t want to be responsible to pay us, but I insisted. Now that he thinks he knows who we are, he’s happy as a pig in shit and will leave us alone. This week’s supplies are stored over there under that tarpaulin.”
Alan shook his head in disbelief and walked off towards the ten-man leather tent that he shared with other members of the crew, and sat down next to the fire to eat a meal of beef stew made from the rations that the Danes had provided, and washed down by English ale paid for by Prince Osbjorn. Finally he gave a laugh at the irony that the Danes were paying wages to the men who were spying on them and he was still chuckling when he wrapped himself in his blanket to sleep.
The following afternoon Alan met with the spy Eadmer at ‘The Anchor’ tavern. As he walked into the tap-room he suffered the usual twinge in the stomach from the stench of unwashed bodies, vomit, urine, stale beer, rotting floor-rushes and animal excrement. His eyes watered from the drifting smoke from the small central fire, which in the absence of a chimney eventually seeped out under the eaves of the poorly-made thatched roof. Alan couldn’t understand how such an establishment could continue to exist, given the insalubrious conditions, poor fare and poor service- after all it wasn’t as if the drink was cheap. After a close look around in an unsuccessful attempt to locate Eadmer’s minders, Alan approached the nondescript spy, who was wearing a leather jerkin and breeches and with a red woollen cap. Eadmer waved away the slatternly woman who had been sharing his table, slipping her a silver penny as Alan sat down after carefully examining the cleanliness of the small wooden bench.
Eadmer launched straight into his report without any preliminary pleasantries, talking slowly and carefully to allow Alan to mentally record the information he was receiving. A serving-wench approaching with two quart jugs of rancid beer was waved away by Eadmer, who had rented the table by a previous purchase of a pint jack which sat untouched on the table. Eadmer picked up his beer mug and surreptitiously began to pour it onto the floor, so as not to draw attention by leaving an untouched drink when they eventually vacated the table.
When Eadmer had finished his report, which was intended to then be carried by the longship to King William’s agents further south, Alan explained the problem with Gundred and skald Thorkell Skalleson. “So that’s who you’re using. A fairly good source- if you can trust him, since he’s a Dane. Still, the Danes probably are no more fond of gold than anybody else, and any amateur spy is likely to be a weak tool. Missing two weeks of scheduled meetings isn’t a good sign, but I haven’t heard any rumours of spies being caught at Earl’s Hall at Durham, which is where the earls are staying. You’ll need to go up to Durham and see whether they’ve got cold feet, or what else is going on.”
Alan grunted his acknowledgement of the advice. “I’ll get the ship to take me up to Monkwearmouth tomorrow.”
“Nah! Nah!” replied Eadmer, waving a hand negatively. “You’ll be too noticeable that way. You’ve got the locals around here used to you, but questions will be asked if you head north instead of south. Buy a couple of nags and ride up to Durham with your servant. That way you won’t receive any undue attention- there are hundreds of armed men on horses and you won’t even be noticed. A longship would be noticed.”
Alan did as he had been bidden and early the following morning purchased two rough hackamores and their tack from one of the less-disreputable horse-traders, carefully examining their legs and gait at a trot. While they weren’t animals that he’d be prepared to take on a campaign he was satisfied they could cover the eighteen miles to Durham and then back.
Alan and his page Leof arrived at Durham a little after mid-day, payed their pontage toll to cross the wooden bridge over the River Wear and entered the town from the south. After weeks of living rough in either the hide-out cave or a tent at the camp on the bank of the River Tees Alan saw no need to patronise cheap and uncomfortable lodgings and chose a non-descript but comfortable inn called ‘The Duck amp; Drake’, taking a small and sparsely furnished but clean room on the first floor. The horses were ensconced at a small stable a few yards down the street, the young groom being given twopence to rub down and feed and water the animals.
After a midday meal of bacon and vegetable pottage, day-old bread and hard cheese washed down by ale, Alan decided to have a brief look at the town before he sought Gundred and the skald. By southern standards Durham was a large town rather than a city and was nestled on high ground on the north bank of the River Wear in a tight loop of the river, so as to be afforded protection by the water on three sides. The site had been chosen for defensibility, given the history of repeated raids by Vikings and Scots. The town lacked the grandiose buildings that usually adorned cities, but possessed in full measure all the banes of urban life including noise and filth in the crowded streets. Apart from being one of few substantial towns in the north, Durham’s claim to fame were the holy relics housed the ‘The White Church’, the large church built of white stone by the Saxons to house the relics of Saint Cuthbert. There was already talk of replacing the church with a cathedral, to reflect the importance of the diocese being the fourth-most influential in the land.
As they approached the church across the market square Alan indicated to Leof the burnt-out ruins nearby. “Bishop Aethelwine’s house. The bishop is no friend of the Normans, but nor is he popular with Cospatric and the House of Bamburgh. Robert of Commines was staying there when he came to the town after being appointed earl. The bishop warned him of the impending attack, but Commines thought he knew better- he always was an arrogant self-opinionated bastard. A typical Fleming. That was his last mistake. Cospatric couldn’t force his way into the house so he burnt it down and killed Commines and his men as they tried to flee the fire.”
There were a number of people proceeding in and out of the west-facing main door of the church, many in the sack-cloth and broad-brimmed hats of pilgrims visiting this the most important religious site in northern England. Here, in a shrine located in one of the transepts near the altar, were gilded caskets containing the remains of Saint Cuthbert of Lindisfarne, the most popular saint in northern England, together with caskets containing the head of Saint Oswald and the remains of the author Bede, who had praised both of the saints in his written histories.
The inside of the stone church was dark and cold, the air thick with floating clouds of incense. Just inside the church door stood two burly-looking priests in monk’s habits and a large box on a table. Noticing that the pilgrims placed coins in the box, Alan did the same, adding two silver pennies to the money that the diocese garnered from this religious tourism as the faithful came to pray, and in some cases to beseech the miracles for which the shrine was famous. He dipped his fingers in the holy-water of the stoup and anointed his forehead and lips.
Some two dozen pilgrims gathered at the wooden railing which separated the shrine from the remainder of the church, several bearing crutches or other signs of infirmity. Past pilgrims had included many of the powerful in the land, not least King Cnut who had gifted the diocese substantial lands within Northumbria. Alan first approached the main altar to kneel and pray at the altar-rail. The altar itself was covered with a beautifully-embroidered cloth of fine white linen, and on this stood two large golden five-branched candelabra with tall and thick bees-wax candles alight, and a large open vellum-bound book. Above was the magnificent Great Cross, which had been presented to the church a few years before by Tostig when he was earl, and subsequently deliberately damaged by Cospatric. Tostig had not sought to glorify God with gold and jewels, but with fine imported cedar-wood and the excellence of the craftsmanship of the carving. Alan felt that he could almost himself feel the pain clearly shown on the face of Christ crucified. How Cospatric, supposedly a Christian, could deliberately defile such a magnificent piece of work by mutilating the left side of the body, out of petty spite, was something beyond Alan’s comprehension. He drew from his pocket his five-decade of rosary beads and began reciting the Apostle’s Creed while kneeling below the crucifix. He then proceeded to Our Fathers and Hail Marys, allowing his mind to clear as he meditated on the familiar ritual.
After completing his devotions at the altar Alan moved to kneel on the stone floor near the shrine, being able to find room at one end of the line of kneeling pilgrims. Again he allowed his mind to clear and accept the Word and to drink in the holiness of the sacred surroundings.
By the time he had finished his devotions the afternoon was drawing to a close. When they left the White Church he turned his steps towards the fortified burg within the walls at the northern part of the town. While Durham had been fortified for protection against raids by the Vikings and Scots, both of which had occurred for time out of memory, it had no castle as it had never been governed by the Normans- apart from the few weeks of Robert of Commines ill-fated rule. What it did have was the burg. This was a fortification with wooden walls within which in times of trouble the local populace and their animals could take refuge for a short period, with some reserves of food and forage being maintained. A burg had a different function to a castle. The latter was intended to protect its garrison for a substantial period of time. In contrast, a burg was intended to protect all the people for a short time- it was not intended to undergo prolonged sieges as neither the Scots nor the Viking raiders undertook these. Within the burg was Earl’s Hall, and it was here that Alan and Leof went that evening.
Gaining access to Earl’s Hall was not difficult. The streets of the city were thronged with warriors from three armies- the English, the Danes and the Scots. There were so many soldiers in the town that anybody with the bearing of a warrior and carrying a sword was less likely to be questioned by the guards than was a local townsman. Dozens of warriors were entering the burg, timing their arrival for the evening meal. There were so many entering that the few guards were overwhelmed by numbers and, not wanting to cause friction by challenging reluctant allies, the guards concentrated on looking fierce and alert while doing little.
Alan strode in with the confidence of a man who knew where he was and what he was doing and who had nothing to hide- all of which were inapplicable, but he’d learned much from his time at the royal court and knew that an arrogant attitude could take a man almost anywhere. He had little concern about being discovered as an impostor. Whilst he wasn’t dressed in fine clothes, neither was he or Leof poorly dressed. He’d left his distinctive green-dyed wolf-cloak behind at the cave hide-out and was dressed Saxon-style in tunic and breeches made of russet-dyed wool, with cross-bound leggings and leather boots. His hair was long and in disarray, as he’d chosen not to tie it back. During his time in the caves he’d grown his beard longer- both the long hair and the beard being of flaming red. Given the regular Viking raids into Northumbria over the years, and the current Danish contingent, neither his tall and strong physique nor his colouring were in any way unusual in the Hall. He had met earls Edwin and Morcar in polite social gatherings in the south before the rebellion, but he had not met Waltheof, Cospatric or the other rebels, and more particularly had not met the minions that may be in a position to apprehend him. He knew that even those who he had met previously would be hard-pressed to recognise him now.
All he had to do was avoid making any stupid mistakes and he would be safe.
He took a place at one of the lower tables, well below the Salt, and talked to those warrior seated about him. Most warriors when they’ve had a few drinks will open their mouths and boast about themselves without any thought and Alan was able to obtain information simply by asking a few questions- indeed the main problem was trying to maintain the conversation on a basis that interested him, with the warriors wanting to boast about past exploits or complain about current accommodation and supplies.
The general consensus was, with an army of nearly 10,000 men available, they should be marching south to attack Lincoln instead of sitting in Durham. Alan could well understand their comments- if he was ‘sitting on the other side of the table’ he’d also be demanding to march south. Every day’s delay improved the chances of King William winning. The earls had gathered their army. The enemy army was nowhere to be seen. Not to march south now was inviting disaster later.
Half an hour after the hoi polloi started to eat, the members of the high-table walked in from another room. Alan recognised Edgar the Aetheling- and Gundred. He asked the man sitting at his right hand to identify Waltheof, Cospatric, Maerle-Sveinn, Arnkell and the four sons of Kali- Cnut, Sumarlithr, Gamall, and Thorbrand. He deliberately made no reference to skald Thorkell Skalleson, presuming that this was the man whose arm Gundred was holding and to whom she was giving adoring looks.
After a further half hour of swapping lies and boasts with the men sharing his table, Alan rose and caught Gundred’s eye. After a start of recognition she looked at Alan, looked carefully at the nearby door that led outside to the privies and made a small motion with her head, without returning her gaze to Alan. He allowed a pause of several minutes before proceeding through the indicated door into the darkness outside, which was relieved only by a single torch burning on a post outside the wood-built privies. He stood near the edge of the torch-light until Gundred emerged from the Hall and, after he was sure he’d been seen by her, he stepped back into the protection of the darkness.
“Thank Frigg you’ve come!” said Gundred. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send a letter, but I didn’t know who to use to carry it or where to send it. Quickly, I’m being followed!”
“We weren’t sure if you’d changed your mind,” said Alan quietly, noting a roughly-dressed man sidling through the doorway. He put an arm about Gundred’s waist and pulled her close. “Never send a letter- never put anything in writing. I’ll see you tomorrow at St. Lawrence’s Church when the bell of the White Church rings at mid-day for Sext. There’s no service at St. Lawrence’s at that time. Now slap me and walk away.”
Gundred leaned back and gave Alan a hard open-handed slap to the face, pulling clear of his encircling arm and stalking back to the Hall with an arrogant swing of the hips. Just another pretty woman who’d received and rejected an unwanted advance. Alan theatrically put a hand to his cheek and gave a chuckle as Gundred’s shadow followed her back into the Hall.
Alan sauntered nonchalantly back into the Hall, collected Leof and returned to the room he had rented at the inn. Most of the room was taken up with a straw-filled palliasse, which Alan was to share with Leof. After lighting a single tallow-candle Alan pulled off his boots and sat with his back to the wall, deep in thought. Leof, exhausted by the exertions of the day, the late hour and the ale he had consumed, lay down fully-clothed and was asleep in moments. After over an hour of deep thought Alan gave a chuckle filled with satisfaction, snuffed out the candle and settled to sleep.
After breaking their fast on a sop of stale bread dipped in ale, Alan directed Leof to follow him out into the bustling streets. They’d brought two changes of clothes for the boy, both made of wool. One was a rough but serviceable tunic and breeches; the other was the clothing that he’d worn to Earl’s Hall the previous night, of better quality but still in the local Anglo-Danish style. The first stop was at a rag-seller’s stall, where Alan purchased a tattered and patched set of rags suitable to be worn by a street-urchin or beggar, but directed the stall-holder these were to washed, aired and ready for collection in three hours, paying extra for this. While Alan wanted Leof to be able to look like a street-urchin, he didn’t need to smell like one, nor share his clothing with other occupants- both of which were of concern to Alan as he was sharing a bed with the boy.
While Leof’s clothing was being washed and dried, Alan firstly purchased a pair of rough sandals and then entered a barbershop. He’d decided that he was going to masquerade as a priest, but was damned of he was going to wear his hair in a tonsure. As in that guise his flaming red hair and beard were likely to draw attention, he had his pate and chin shaved clean. Next stop, at mid-morning, was the rear of the abbey. As Alan had hoped, the washer-woman had undertaken the laundry and a dozen or so monk’s habits were hanging on the washing-line to dry. After a quick look at sizes and another quick look to make sure nobody was watching, Alan removed two habits; one that appeared as if it would fit his tall frame, and another slightly smaller. Both were somewhat worn and threadbare, but were serviceable and Alan doubted they would even be missed. After then collecting Leof’s clothing from the rag-seller they headed towards St. Lawrence’s church, arriving about an hour before Sext.
The church was an old Saxon-built building of wood, simply but strongly made with thick oak beams supporting a roof of wooden shakes. The light inside was dim, coming through curved windows made not of stained glass but oiled canvas. Despite the lack of finery the church had a comfortable ambiance. A quick inspection proved the building to be unoccupied and Alan changed his clothing into the purloined and still damp garment stolen from the monks and removed his boots, exchanging these for the rough sandals he’d purchased, and made a bundle of his own clothing and footwear. On emerging from the vestry, a borrowed stole and wooden pectoral cross about his neck, he gave Leof firm instructions before spending some time at prayer before the altar. About a quarter of an hour before Gundred was due to arrive he rose and entered one of the pair of wooden confessional boxes, pulling the heavy black curtain closed behind him.
Gundred arrived promptly, entering the church as the echoes of the bell of the nearby White Church were fading, and stood just inside the door looking around. Leof quickly approached her and whispered urgently, “Go to the confessional box with the open curtain, enter and close the curtain, but wait until your follower enters the church before you close the curtain, so he knows where you are. I’ll stand close by to ensure he can’t get close enough to listen.”
Gundred did as she was bid, approaching the confessional box but not entering until she saw a flicker of movement by the church door. After sitting and closing the curtain she heard the small screen between the boxes slide open and a disembodied voice say, “Do you have anything you wish to confess since we lasted attended church, my child?”
She managed to avoid a hysterical laugh and whispered in reply, “A very clever idea. We can meet openly in conditions that are expected to be secret and not overheard. The only problem is that I’m a pagan, not a Christian!”
“You have just had a sudden conversion of faith!” replied Alan. “What’s the problem? Why are you being followed?”
“That idiot Thorkell can’t keep his damn mouth shut! He had to get drunk and boast to one of his cronies that he’s going to be a rich man soon! That was reported back to Osbjorn. We all know a skald can’t earn any real money honestly, so Osbjorn thinks he may do something dishonest. It wasn’t enough to put us to questioning, but is enough for us both to be watched carefully.”
“Didn’t you pass on my warnings about the risk?”
“Of course I did- most carefully as I knew that he has a big mouth. I certainly have no wish to be put to the knife!”
“To business then. You come here each Thursday at this time. Somebody, maybe me or maybe somebody I trust, will be here. He’ll introduce himself as ‘Brother Benedict’. I suggest that you also start going to church on Sundays, so that your sudden rush of piety isn’t seen as unusual. Now, what are the rebels up to?”
“No a lot. They’re strangely inactive, given that William has other problems that are keeping him busy. As you know, the rebels still hold York. William’s nearest men, except yours, are at Lincoln, and the spies report there are less than a thousand men there. Waltheof wants to march south with every spear the rebels have and take Lincoln and Peterborough. Edgar and Cospatric can’t make their minds up what to do, and so don’t do anything. William’s reputation alone has them so frightened that they’re like mice hiding under a sack in a granary, snatching a few loose grains when the cat’s not looking.
“The Danes are happy enough to move and fight. They’re here for what they can plunder and they received most of the loot from York. But they won’t go far from their ships. There are about 3,000 of them, and another 3,000 Anglo-Danes and Anglo-Saxons. If they raise all the levies in the north, that’d be another 4,000 or so men, but mainly untrained men armed with pitch-forks and hoes. There’s currently about 1,000 Scots from Cumbria, but they’re drifting off back home out of boredom at the lack of action- there were twice that many a couple of weeks ago. There’s a rumour that the Danish king Svend Estridsen may come back again with 100 more ships, which would be another 4,000 men, but I doubt it. He’s old and I’ve been told that he’s been sick recently.”
“What do you mean that William has other problems? I’d been told that he’d intended to retake York by now.”
“You don’t know? Well, I suppose you don’t get much news sitting in a cave. There’s been a series of revolts across the south and he’s having to deal with them one by one. Also in the west the Welsh are across the border in force again, and Eadric The Wild has been raising hell in Shropshire again. We’ve been told that Shrewsbury was been sacked- again. I expect that William will want things quiet at his back when he marches north. Not that he’s likely to need to march north if the Danes leave. Without them this rag-tag army will fall apart.”
“And would the Danes leave, if William made it worth their while?”
“Do bears shit in the forest? If course they will! It’s traditional for them to accept silver and then go and bother somebody else. Accepting bribes is more of a national occupation than is fighting. Our men enjoy fighting, and they’re good at it, but accepting a hefty bribe to sail away is a more certain source of income. That’s business. Fighting is for pleasure.”
Alan decided that they’d been closeted in the confessional boxes long enough and that any further delay would indicate to the watcher that Gundred must lead a particularly active life of sinning, and so he briefly confirmed the arrangements for the meeting the following week. Gundred slipped out and several minutes later Leof whispered that all was clear, allowing Alan to emerge, shift his clothing and return to the inn.
The following morning Alan had Leof collect the horses from the stable, to avoid Alan’s changed appearance being noted. They rode the eighteen miles to Hartlepool via Cassop and Wingate, arriving back at the encampment on the riverbank a little after midday. There was much ribald comment made by the warriors about Alan’s clean-shaved head, which he accepted with good humour. Alan took delight in telling Oswy, a Saxon warrior with a particularly fine moustache which was the labour of many years and of which he was very proud, but who was also an intelligent young man who could read and write in the vernacular, that it would be his turn to shave clean and act as ‘Brother Benedict’ on their next journey. Oswy’s howls of protest could hardly be heard over the gales of laughter of his companions.
The next day the ship was pushed into the river, the anchor-stone pulled up and the oars began to rise and fall as they headed down the River Tees, past the gambolling and barking inhabitants of Seal Sands and out to sea on their way to the caves at Flamborough Head.
A week later, after another useless visit to nearby York which was still in rebel hands, Alan lost patience. Clearly events had progressed in such a way that his previous instructions were not applicable. He had information that needed to be passed on and which he should have delivered to York- had it been in loyalist hands. Reaching a decision Alan said to Sven, “You take Havorn to Hartlepool tomorrow and have Oswy ride to Durham with another trusted man. You know the contact procedures. I’ll get Lars to take me south in Alekrage.
The following evening Alekrage rowed up the River Witham and into Lincoln, to the considerable dismay of local shipping which scattered and fled at her approach. It was cold and windy, with a misty rain falling. A force of about fifty men-at-arms was present on the dock at The Pool, commanded by a pimply-faced youth. Clambering up over the low saxboard and onto the dock Alan called down to Lars in Anglo-Saxon English, “Keep your men on the ship for the time being, until I send word. Then you can dismiss them for a night on the town. Make sure they understand that they say nothing about who we are or where we’re from, if they value their lives. Even here loose lips can see us dead. I’ll arrange accommodation for us all at the castle. The men can have tomorrow off, that’s Sunday, and then we’ll head north early the next day.”
Turning to the guard commander he instructed in Norman French, “You, set a guard to keep the gawpers away, at least ten men and make sure nobody but my men approaches that ship, then take me up to the castle. Who’s in charge at the moment? Robert of Mortain, you say? Where the hell is the king? No don’t bother, Count Robert will tell me what I need to know. Leof and Brand, you come with me. Lead on, you young fool!”
The nonplussed and confused young commander did as instructed and with a group of ten men escorted Alan up Steep Hill to the castle. The castle was abuzz with the news of a Danish ship in the Pool and they were ushered almost immediately into the Hall where Robert of Mortain, one of the king’s half-brothers and his life-long supporter, was sitting at a table near a roaring fire dictating letters to two clerks.
“Ah! I should have guessed it would be you! Good evening Sir Alan! Take a seat.” The Count snapped his fingers and a flagon of wine, jug of water and two silver goblets appeared on the table. “How fare things to the north? Do you have information?” asked the large and heavily-built man, who was grey-haired and in his late forties. “Any news of Gilbert de Ghent and William Malet since the fall of their castles at York?”
“Information, yes. But little understanding,” commented Alan. “De Ghent and Malet are captives of the Danes and I understand are being reasonably treated, as are Malet’s wife and two children who were captured with him. The rest of the two castle garrisons were slaughtered, almost to a man. May I enquire why York is still in the hands of the Aetheling’s men and there is no royal army here?”
“Because things have turned to shit everywhere,” replied Robert pithily. “Most of my land is in Sussex, Cornwall, Devon and Dorset. I must have done a damn poor job of keeping an eye on things, because the men from Cornwall and Devon have attacked Exeter and my castle at Montacute is under siege from the men of Somerset and Dorset. I understand that Geoffrey de Mowbray, the bishop of Coutances, is leading a relieving force from London, Winchester and Salisbury. The townsfolk of Exeter helped the garrison drive off their attackers and those rebels were then caught by fitzOsbern and Brian of Brittany. That was a couple of weeks ago. Now fitzOsbern and the king have had to march to the Welsh border as Eadric The Wild and the Welsh, led by Bleddyn of Gwynedd, burnt Shrewsbury to the ground. They couldn’t take the castle and have moved on towards Stafford.
“The king and his men were here a couple of weeks ago and helped beat back an advance by the Aetheling’s men, although I think that was really just a large foraging party. I’ve got enough men to hold Lincoln and control the surrounding area. By holding Lincoln in some force we prevent the Northumbrians and the Danes from marching down the Roman road into the Midlands, as we threaten their flank. When the fires have been put out behind us and the king and fitzOsbern have pushed the Welsh back over the border and taken the Mercians out of the picture, then we can take care of the north. At the moment York has to wait. I heard it was burnt by the Danes, so there’d be no shelter for an army anyway. We can take it back and get rid of the Danes later. Maybe before Christmas, maybe in the spring,” concluded Robert tiredly.
“I see your point. It’s all a matter of priorities and the first priority would be keeping the bird in the hand before the bush burns down,” replied Alan. Robert gave a brief nod and Alan continued, “How fares your wife Matilda, your children and her family? Are they at Montecute?”
Count Robert looked grim. “Yes, Matilda and my three daughters Agnes, Denise and Emma are at Montecute. This all arose so quickly there was no chance to pack them off to Normandy. My son William is a squire in Normandy, so he’s safe enough- or at least as safe as any youth training for war can be! Matilda’s father Roger de Montgomerie and her mother Mabel were safe in the castle at Shrewsbury along with Roger, Phillip and Arnulf. The two older boys are in France. How are Anne and your daughter?”
“Fine last I saw them, although Anne is due to drop our next child shortly and given the medical problems last time I’d like to be there.” He paused for a sip of wine, which he was drinking unwatered out of respect for its quality. “So are the efforts my men are making worthwhile?”
Robert shrugged and replied, “Information is always of value. What information you have at the moment will be of questionable value in two months time, but we need to keep contact open with the agents. Who knows, they may come up with some information that requires immediate action, such as a sea-borne assault by the Danes on London. That would be the last thing we need when most of the city garrison is marching on Montacute! At the moment we have men running all over the place trying to keep a lid on what’s going on. I’d say at the moment you’d best be served by going home and leaving your men and ships doing what they are doing. We’re unlikely to need to your own services until Christmas, maybe longer depending on how severe the winter is and whether William can campaign in the winter.”
Taking the Count at his word Alan met with Lars and Brand the following morning, provided them with instructions to continue with the contact with the spies and provided Brand with a purse of money obtained from the Count’s Steward to be used to purchase supplies- he’d conveniently overlooked telling Count Robert that his men were being paid wages by the Danes. Following all of this activity he carefully chose two horses to purchase and rode south in the rain with Leof for company.