Judith's stomach heaved at the betrayal. 'I'll do it now, Mother,' she said in a choked voice, and fled the stench of the birthing chamber before she was sick.
Seated on his campstool, Waltheof listened to the mourning of gulls and drew his bearskin cloak around him, seeking warmth and knowing that the gesture was fruitless. The cold came from within and had little to do with the bone deep chill of the January morning outside his tent. No longer did the fire of battle burn through his bones. The conflagration had been too fierce, too intense to last, and Waltheof did not have the nature for coddling a flame once the initial blaze had died down.
York had fallen. That part had been bright and glorious, although he could remember little enough of the battle. They said that he had fought like a hero; that it was as if the great Earl Siward himself had returned to wreak vengeance on the Normans who had dared to violate his slumber. Thorkel had composed stirring battle songs to honour Waltheof's prowess: there had been huge rejoicing, and every man, woman and child in York had rushed to tear down the hated keeps that the Normans had erected to control the city. Those moments had been dazzling - a great blaze of triumph and exultation. The Norman usurpers would be driven from the land. Waltheof had been so certain, so sure, so filled with burning enthusiasm. Now it was all ashes blowing in the wind.
Rising from the campstool, he swept his lank hair off his brow and went outside into the chill morning air. A fine drizzle was falling, so cold that it was almost sleet and the land was lost in a misted grey haze. They should never have torn down the castles at York, he thought. It had been a mistake. They had no fortifications to bolster their position when William came raging to the North.
Allies had melted away like butter off a hot griddle. The Scots, the Northumbrians had plundered and scattered. The Danes had returned to their ships, feeding off the land like migrant geese but showing small commitment to stay and fight.
Toki brought him a cup of hot mead and Waltheof took it gratefully, holding the cup in his hands like a small heart. There had been no stopping William. Organised, determined, cold as iron, he had pushed northwards, destroying everything in his path. Waltheof was still ashamed that he had retreated, but there had been no alternative. The fortresses were burned, their army of its own volition scattering to gorge on the delights of victory and plunder. Whatever was visited upon them was their own fault.
They had heard terrible tales of William's wrath. That entire villages had been destroyed - the livestock slaughtered, the young men executed, so that never again would the North be able to rise in rebellion. On Christmas Day William had sent to Winchester for his regalia and had worn it in York's devastated ruins, setting the stamp of his rule upon the city.
Now. too late. Waltheof understood the true power of the man to whom he had given his oath of allegiance and then reneged. The ruthless, single-minded determination, the skills of leadership were beyond anything that the rebels could match. What use was personal courage against the inexorable force of disciplined Norman troops?
A figure emerged out of the mist - Earl Gospatric, lord of lands on the Scots borders. He and Waltheof had retreated together with each advance of William's army until now they were camped on the banks of the Tees, unsure of their next move. Toki brought mead for Gospatric too. The Earl took the cup, drank deeply and gazed morosely into the drizzle without speaking.
'We could take the road to Chester,' Waltheof volunteered after a moment.
'We could,' Gospatric said, but without any great enthusiasm. He knuckled red-rimmed eyes.
'Likely we would be safe there for the winter at least. I am told that the walls are well manned and strong.' The safety of Chester also happened to lie on the other side of the Pennine Mountains. A January crossing of the passes was a prospect that neither man relished, but it had to be considered. They did not have the resources to fight the Normans at this point unless they could muster their scattered army. And the likelihood of that was the same as the drizzle ceasing this side of the morrow.
Waltheof was aware that they needed someone to tell them what to do, to imbue them with the fire and confidence they had possessed at York. He didn't have it; neither did Gospatric.
Their brooding was interrupted by the arrival of one of their scouts, who had been out reconnoitring the Norman position. Now he came before Waltheof and Gospatric. Behind him, bearing a banner of truce, rode Richard de Rules and his two sons, Gamier and Simon.
Waltheof stared. Then he leaped to his feet and strode forward. His heart was hammering like a fist against his ribcage.
'My lord, I bid you welcome,' he cried and gestured a hovering soldier to take their horses.
De Rules dismounted. Although Waltheof had smiled at him, the Norman did not return the gesture, just, inclined his head gravely, as did his eldest son. Simon's face was expressionless and he looked not at Waltheof but at the ground. Waltheof noticed that the boy dismounted smoothly and balanced himself well. A space at the back of his mind found time to wonder how many hours of practice that move had taken.
'You will drink mead?' Waltheof gestured towards his tent.
Again De Rules inclined his head. 'I am sorry to greet you in such circumstances,' he said as Waltheof led them into the relative dryness of the canvas shelter. Gospatric followed and dropped the flap.
'And I am too,' Waltheof responded. 'We hear grievous tales of the harm being visited upon the people of the North Country.' He turned to Simon and pointed to the cups and mead jug standing on the chest at the side of his camp bed. Wordlessly, eyes still downcast, the boy set about pouring drinks.
'A harm that they have brought upon themselves by giving succour to Danes and rebels,' De Rules said sharply.
Waltheof flashed him an angry glance. 'But Danes and rebels have more in common with these people than you Normans ever will,' he said. 'My own father is buried in Jorvik under the care of Saint Olaf, and its people abhor your keeps and your fortifications. They are symbols of captivity.' He had clenched his fists. Looking down at the skin stretched taut across his knuckles, he saw again the battleaxe in his hand and remembered the mingling of exhilaration and revulsion as he wielded it.
'They are symbols of the order that King William would bring to the land,' De Rules said softly. 'He will brook resistance from no one. You stand in his way not only at your peril, my lord, but at your death.'
Waltheof took the cup that Simon gave him and saw that despite his attempt at a neutral visage the boy was trembling. He felt much the same way himself. 'I am not afraid to die,' he said with a curl of his lip.
De Rules' look pierced straight through the bravado. 'Then you are a fool, Waltheof of Huntingdon,' he said, 'and I speak as a friend now, and a man who is grateful for the gift of his son's life, not as my king's messenger. You should be afraid to die because you will be squandering more than just your life. You say you have heard what is happening to the people of the North because of their defiance. What then will happen to the people of your earldom? Under whose yoke will they be put to labour if you die? Your responsibility is to them first, not your own selfishness. You cannot hold out against William. He will cross the river with his army and you will retreat where, to Chester?'
Waltheof was wrongfooted. He stared at De Rules, a jolt of panic surging in his gut.
'It is obvious,' the Norman said with an impatient wave of his hand. 'The last English resistance is gathered there. William will advance and break it as surely as he has broken all defiance. Do not make the mistake of believing it impossible at this time of year. He is capable of moving mountains, let alone crossing them.'
'So what are you offering?' Gospatric spoke for the first time, his voice a dry whisper. He remained standing near the tent flap, as if ready to take flight.
De Rules took a drink of mead then rested the cup on his knee. 'The King will give you your lives and allow you to retain the lands you held when you swore your first oath of allegiance,' he said, 'but you must surrender to him now, and your surrender must be absolute.'
Waltheof exchanged glances with Gospatric.
'You will not find succour with the Danes,' De Rules added. 'William has bought their loyalty with gold. Those who have not taken it and sailed away are pinned down and dying even now beneath the swords of Mortain, Taillebois and Eudo of Champagne.' He shook his head. 'The Danes came like kites for plunder, and they mind not whether it comes from English or Norman pouches.'
'That is not true!' Waltheof was stung to retort.
'True or not, they are no longer here to back your cause. They have had their victory of battle and they have their plunder. Why should they stay to face a hard winter fighting the Normans when they can go home with their booty and feast in their own mead halls with their wives and bedmates?'
Waltheof rubbed his beard and suddenly felt as weary as an old man. Their cause was hopeless. The only spark of light was the fact that William had sent Richard de Rules to the parley and that he should have brought the lad with him - a sign that the road to discourse was still open.
'You can go home too,' De Rules murmured. 'All you need do is surrender to the King.'
Waltheof smiled grimly. 'This is my home,' he said. 'And William may indeed be the King, but that does not mean that this land will ever truly belong to him.'
The Normans took their leave shortly after that. Gospatric had departed to his own tent, but Waltheof accompanied De Rules and his sons to the horse lines. Simon had still not spoken beyond a monosyllable and his eyes had not met Waltheof's once.
'I know the reasons why you took up arms against the King,'
De Rules murmured. He fiddled with the bridle, seeming reluctant to mount up and ride away.
'Do you indeed?' Waltheof folded his arms across his body like a shield.
'Mayhap in your position I would have done the same.'
'And what would you do if you were in my position now?'
The Norman set his foot in the stirrup and swung his leg across the saddle. 'I would throw myself on the King's mercy and renew my oath of allegiance.' Gathering the reins, he rested his hands upon the carved pommel. 'William knows your reasons too,' he said. 'If your yielding is complete, he may be prepared to change his stance on certain matters.'
The words hit Waltheof like a punch in the gut, taking his breath. For a moment he could only stare, then somehow he managed to gather his scattered wits. 'And dangle me like Edwin of Mercia?' he snarled. 'You think I am so cheaply bought and sold?'
De Rules' horse plunged and circled and the knight swiftly shortened the rein. 'You saved my son's life. I may be William's messenger but I am my own man and would not say you false. The King is camped across the river and you have fourteen days in which to make your surrender.'
And if I do not?'
'Then God have mercy on your soul,' De Rules said sombrely. He extended his hand in a pleading gesture. 'In the name of Christ, my lord, I ask you make your peace with William before it becomes the peace of the grave.'
Waltheof's jaw tightened. 'I doubt if I made my grave now that I would lie in any kind of peace,' he said. 'Tell William that I will come when I am ready.'
De Rules nodded. Simon swung up into the saddle and took the lance of truce into his hand.
Waltheof looked up at him. 'How is your leg?' he asked.
Finally the boy's eyes met his and Waltheof saw that they were filled with wariness and reproach. 'It serves me well, my lord,' he said.
His voice had deepened, although it still bore the pure bell tones of boyhood and it would be a while yet before it broke. But some of the eager innocence had gone and Waltheof felt saddened, not least because he suspected that he had a part in it. Heroes were not supposed to be traitors, and explaining the motivation was too difficult when he did not understand the half of it himself.
'It is good to see you again, and I think you have grown,' Waltheof said, taking refuge in the mundane.
Simon's gaze was direct now, the light brown eyes almost the shade of Baltic amber. 'Do you not hate us?' he asked.
'Hate you?' Waltheof was nonplussed. 'God's love child, of course I do not hate you! Why should you think that?'
'Because of York… because of what has followed.' His voice faltered slightly. Waltheof wondered how much of the devastation Simon had seen. Probably more than he could stomach, given that he was squiring in William's household. And in York, in the heat of battle, Waltheof had personally slaughtered an untold number of Normans. Walking among the corpses in the aftermath, he had emptied his belly at the sight of so much blood and destruction. He had confessed his bloodlust, had been absolved, but to him it felt as if the taint still remained on his soul and would never wash clean.
He shook his head and grimaced. 'Ah lad,' he said, 'you always bring me questions I cannot or should not for decency's sake answer. There are many things I might hate about Normans, but you are not one of them… and never will be.'
Simon pondered this, a slight frown knitting his brows. 'Does that mean I can visit you… if you are pardoned?'
Waltheof found a pained smile. 'You and your father will always be welcome at any of my manors,' he said. 'Whatever has gone before, whatever comes afterwards, I would never turn you away.'
Simon's expression gentled in response, the frown vanishing. 'I hope it is soon,' he said.
'bo do I, Waltheof replied, and meant it. If there was one good reason among all the less noble ones for bowing his head to William, then the boy's trust was it.
The Norman camp was orderly and disciplined. Riding into it with his troop, Waltheof felt like a brigand or a common pirate. His white fur mantle, the gold bracelets on his wrists, the rings on his fingers seemed garish in comparison to the spartan garb of the soldiers who watched him ride through their ranks. Their short hair and clean jaws added to the impression. Waltheof had washed his hair and combed his beard before setting out to the parley, but still he felt like a barbarian at the gates of Rome.