This is the beginning of a fictional history set in Yorkshire during the early part of the Norman Conquest. Specifically, the year is 1069 and a group of Northern English chiefs meet to plot the assassination of William the Conqueror.
We normally think of 1066, but 1069 was also an important year in English history. It was the year William decided to lay waste to the entire north as a way of crushing the remaining English rebels once and for all. Known as the Harrying of the North, the campaign lasted until 1071, and Yorkshire took the brunt of the Norman terror.
With the obvious exception of William himself, the characters here are entirely my invention.
NORMAN
NOSE
It was a chilly November in the year 1069 when a dozen or
more English warlords - the most powerful and vital of the North - assembled at
the Meeting Place, atop a small, gentle, misty valley in Yorkshire. They were chiefs from some of the Northern
English kingdoms beyond the Normans’ reach – Elmet, Jorvik, Deira - and the
chieftains of other smaller but important kingdoms. They met in the hall of the village, which
was reached up a steep track that stretched across the wetlands along the course
of an old Roman road. The route was
surrounded by cultivated fields, in which the farmers busied planting einkorn,
oats and beans and tended to goats, pigs and sheep. Most of the men had arrived from the flatter drylands
of Yorkshire just east or to the south, or the hills of the north and west.
Arriving early in the morning, some of those who came were
novel to the villagers. Those from the
West Riding were darker-featured than they were used-to and perhaps also
fiercer in appearance and more barbaric than the pure blood Saxons; they dressed
in armour as if ready for battle at any time, carried short broad swords in
their belts and brightly-coloured heavy metal shields that seemed to be for
show. They rode a-brace on stocky,
tough-looking horses that moved quickly and aggressively and scattered the
women and children, who backed away in fear as they came. Others, from the North Riding and further to
the east, were purer Saxons and seemed more similar to the villagers and
friendlier. They were handsome,
pink-skinned blond men, dressed in plain robes with plain wooden shields; they
rode on tall warhorses that dwarfed the men and oxen of the fields and carried
long swords with elaborately-fashioned hefts and handles, which seemed to be
for ceremony.
As it was still dark, the warriors and chiefs were greeted
by a solemn torch-lit assembly, who guided them to the hall, the interior of which
was a single room lit by candles and a wild, raging fire that had been burning
in the hearth for at least two days in readiness for their arrival. Retainers busied around the men, and as the
day progressed, food and drink were served, including wild boar, bloody pig,
mutton, bread and cheese, all washed down with mead and other homemade ales. By the afternoon, there was entertainment in
the form of harp music and dice and board games, with bets taken and wagers of
geld, land and property lost and gained, and re-lost and re-gained. Fighting soon broke out. There were arguments about everything – sons,
weapons, women, martial prowess, money, property and inheritances, and bets
just taken. Amidst the drunkenness, long-forgotten
ancient disputes and grievances were re-run, some dating back to the jarls and
the Old Country of Scandinavia and the northern German tribes, brought up again
only on occasions such as this. Threats,
boasts and promises of blood-vengeance abounded – some idle, some sincere, at
least in that drunken moment – be it for this slight or that perceived
insult.
But as the evening drew near, all of it was forgotten as
the party of men sat down to their proper business at the long table. While the retainers were noisily occupied
clearing the room of the mess, some chiefs dozed in their chairs while others
quietly waited and sobered themselves in mind.
Finally, when it was night, the guards and retainers were sent away,
down the valley to camp and wait for their chiefs. The Twelve were alone.
Flies buzzed around. Rank mead that had long-since thrived and
peaked now sat stale in grimy tankards.
Leif, one of the chieftains, woke from a doze and took a sip, spat it
out and cursed it. The creamy, honey-tasting frothed ale, succulent meat and
delicious cheese and bread were behind him. The hall was now dark and silent and the manly frivolities were
over. Eleven others sat around the table
with him, their faces - lit above silhouetted bodies - seemed nervous or even frightened. Leif drifted back to sleep amid the eerie
quietude.
While he dozed, a man in a
dark cloak and wearing large roe stag’s antlers slowly entered the hall. As he
appeared, an audible gasp echoed around the assembled men, who in their fright did
not notice a wiry young man following him.
The strange cloaked man was the local chief, Ceolwulf, lost
to history but in fact known to all the English of his time, and feared by all. He was old, with grey hair and beard, but his
skin was youthful and his mind bright. He
spoke simply and plainly. His voice, chilly,
quiet and deliberate, carried across the hall and seemed even to carry on into
an eternal ether, perhaps in a continuum from an ether in the past – there was
something other-worldly about him.
Standing before them, he began: “These are dark times for
England. We look to our gods, those of
our own faith, the true faith. We reject
the false creed imposed on us by these aliens from the East. We look to Woden, the all-father and creator,
and Thor who sends his arrows of war.
The time has come for men of the folk to make a stand, to bring faith back
to England, to restore the English folk.”
Noise was heard outside, some of the men moved to draw
knives, Leif jolted awake in his chair. It
was merely that the wild swans had arrived in the valley, and a lone cob hissed
around the shy hens, before being chased away by a cockerel. Ceolwulf continued. “You Twelve, who assemble
here, bear the responsibility of all our people. In a moment, you will hear from Ethelgeid…” At
this, Ceolwulf nodded towards the awkward, callow man in the corner and twelve
eyes turned on Ethelgeid, who shifted nervously. “Our enemy is ruthless…” Ceolwulf continued, “…I
must warn you, Ethelgeid has had word from his sources within the Royal court
that there is a terror to come….”
The eyes looked back on Ethelgeid. Ceolwulf saw where the attention was
directed. “Ethelgeid has been confided
in. I will not tell you the name of his
sinner.”
This bit of light relief prompted good-natured laughter
around the room.
“Ethelgeid has been told that William is determined to
subdue the North. His plan to bring us
on side failed. Now he plans to crush
us, but not militarily.”
Looks of puzzlement abounded. Noticing this, Ceolwulf went on with the
explication, “A great terror is coming. The
Normans are intent on laying waste to the North. The aliens’ barbaric God tells them that
those who defy their will shall have divine wrath visited on them. Should we fail, we will lose all that we have
lived and fought for. We cannot fail. We must not fail.”
At this, there were loud murmurs of agreement around the
table, some of the chiefs raising their tankards in salute.
“One more thing…”, Ceolwulf continued, “..before we go out
this night, we will all meet at the Last Tree.”
This final enigma was greeted with wild howling, whistling,
cheering and banging of the table with fists and knives. Once calm had resumed, Ceolwulf turned to
Ethelgeid and nodded, before retreating to the dark, his visage and outline intermittently
just visible in the light of the crackling fire.
Ethelgeid was an Englishman – precisely half-Dane,
half-Saxon. But he was educated. He had been taught French, Latin, theology, Roman
law and mathematics at St Peter’s Abbey and had travelled widely on the
Continent, especially around Normandy and the Italian peninsula, including the
Vatican. Looking across the room at
these twelve tough men, he began to sweat and shake, if not in a way that was
conspicuous. He was not a chief. He was a lawyer and a scholar. Nor was he martial or even specially
masculine in frame or character. His
sword skills were good, but that was just simulated artistry. He had never wielded a sword in anger, still less
a proper weapon such as a spear or axe.
He had not been tested in the way these men had. His voice was soft and his manner
unassuming. He was a man, surely, but
from a different world. Or rather, he
was a man of different worlds who could converse with a Northern Englishman as
easily as a civilised Norman or an educated clergyman, but he did not
understand any of these worlds deeply, even his own, that of the Northern
English. How could he command their
respect? He was one of them by blood, that was certain, but he was not of them
in mind and spirit. All he had was his
faith and profession of loyalty to his folk, but that was not enough for men
who knew the realities of battle and wanted answers.
Before Ethelgeid could begin, Thorald, a hardened and
arrogant Saxon-Celtic chieftain of dark appearance from the West Riding, decided
to put the young counsel off his stride.
Looking him up and down then tilting his head slightly to either side to
rouse the others, he made his disdain clear: “We are to be lectured to by a
Roman?”
The others mumbled to indicate agreement with the
dismissive sentiment, at which Ethelgeid quickly drew his knife and, pouncing
across the table, held it to Thorald’s throat. “I am no Roman, sir. My family’s antecedences go back to the
jarls.” Thorald gaped back at him,
wide-eyed and shocked, then looked to the dark for help. Ceolwulf’s face
flashed in the fire. He was unmoved, a
signal to Thorald that the matter should be laid to rest. Ethelgeid stepped back, sheathed the knife
and resumed his speech, now more confident in his bearing.
“A Great Terror of the North is planned in which our farms,
fields and livestock will be burned to cinder by the Normans. Our women and children will be cast out into
the cold. Our people will starve. The only way to prevent the fall of our
community and folk is to eliminate the centre of Norman authority. Remove the king and the whole edifice
collapses.
Blank faces looked back at him in the dark. Realising some of his elocution was too vague
for the assembled company, he made himself plain: “The man who leads the
Normans must be killed, and just as vital, must be seen to be killed at our
hands. We are not assassins. This is war.”
“The man of whom you speak?”, Thorald challenged Ethelgeid
again, staring him down.
“You ask his name, my brother?”, Ethelgeid responded.
“His name was spoken only moments ago”, another chief, Oswald,
spoke in a loud whisper, nodding to Ceolwulf.
Then looking round the room for support he continued to Ethelgeid: “You
must say his name.”
“We must all say it.
Treason for one, treason for all”, was Ethelgeid’s rejoinder.
“This is no treason, Ethelgeid”, Olaf remonstrated sharply
from the other end of the table, but Ethelgeid ignored him and continued.
“The man known as William the Great among his
admirers. Known to us as William the
Bastard.”
“Aye…William the Bastard”, a smiling Ulf sang it while
lifting and spilling his rank ale.
“William. I condemn him”, Leif enjoined, now fully
awake and enthused, having caught the gist that there would be some violence
involved in whatever was being schemed-up.
“You all must condemn him!”, Ceolwulf demanded.
“Death to William!”
Death to the Bastard!”, they all shouted in unison.
Shouting above the din, his hands begging that they listen,
Ethelgeid continued: “William is, as I speak, on route to York where he plans
to spend Yule. That is our chance.”
Fists banged the table, now without the accompaniment of
cheers. This was deadly and serious.
“How have you come by this information, brother?”, Thorald
asked, now more conciliatory.
“Through sources within the Royal camp. William consorts with a dark woman from a
distant tribe. She teaches him English.”
Laughter among the men.
“Settle down…”, Ceolwulf pleaded wearily.
Ethelgeid continued: “Alas, despite best endeavours, and in
spite of his noble appearance, the Great Conqueror is not a man noted for his bienséance.” This comment was greeted with more blank
stares. Ethelgeid returned to his
audience. “The important thing is that
we must identify him. William uses replacements,
doubles, to trick and fool potential assassins”.
“Doubles?”, someone asked.
“Men who resemble him.
He sends them around the countryside in his place, in case he is
attacked. The point is we only have one
chance to finish this as the scheme exposes us.
We must know for sure that we have our man, or we are lost.”
“Then how will we surmise?”, asked a minor chieftain from
the far north, Wilfrid.
“The Norman nose.”
“The Norman nose? Of
what is this you speak?”, asked another chieftain, Cuthbert.
“Our Great Conqueror is a classic of the specimen. Quite distinguished. Tall and blond with a thin hooked-shaped
nose.”
Thorald turned and joked to the others: “Brothers, I had
never thought that such a fine Norman nose would ever be espied in Yorkshire.”
Raucous laughter followed that comment and at this the
assembled Anglo-Saxon government of Yorkshire broke order and started to drink
and sing louder than ever before, led by the towering Thorald, who
magnanimously gave Ethelgeid a friendly back-slap and urged him to join in. The thread of Ethelgeid’s speech was lost and
there was nothing to do, but the point had been made. The chiefs assented. They were all conspirators. Now to execute his plan.
