Sihtric, with the avid ears of a courtier, picked up the mutterings of the English in the crowd. William had sprung the trap he had evidently been planning all along. The box held by Odo contained a holy relic, the finger of a saint. Now William required Harold to swear allegiance to him, an oath to be sworn on the relic – and Harold was to promise to uphold any claim William made to the throne of England.
Orm, astonished, realised that he had been catapulted into the eye of a storm that might engulf a kingdom.
Harold, his face like thunder, glared around. When he saw Sihtric he beckoned him. The priest was shocked and frightened, but when he was allowed to pass he hurried forward, and Orm and Godgifu followed.
'I think I need some holy advice, priest,' Harold muttered.
'I am here to serve, lord.'
'I can't believe the arrogance of the man. This blustering brute demands such an oath of me. Well, it is a trap into which I have fallen. What should I do? If I make the oath and keep it, William will surely take the throne. You saw his methods, what he did in Brittany. I will not have that befall England. But to take the oath and break it would be a sin.' The oath was the very foundation of the law, binding kings and lords as well as free men. Oath-breaking was a grave offence – and to break an oath sworn on holy relics was graver yet. 'But if I fail to take the oath at all-'
'Then we will all be cut down, brother, here and now,' Gyrth said grimly.
Orm saw Harold's hand move towards his sword, and the tension in the church tightened even further. 'At least we can die fighting.'
Sihtric spoke rapidly to Harold in English, perhaps hoping that William could not hear. 'You are twice the man the Bastard is, ten times. In your wisdom you are a man of the future; William is nothing but aggression and greed, a throwback to a darker past. You must think of the greater good, lord.'
'The greater good? You're saying I should take the oath to stay alive, knowing I will not keep it?' Harold looked agonised. 'But my soul, priest,' he said. 'My soul.'
Sihtric said, 'An oath made under duress is not binding, and no sin.' But even Orm the pagan knew that he was lying.
Odo advanced with the Bible and the reliquary. Harold, his expression torn, placed a hand on the reliquary, faced William the Bastard, and gave his oath.
V
Under a bleak winter sky the Norman ship sailed cautiously up the crowded river. The ship was one of a small flotilla belonging to a Norman lord, Orm's current employer. With its mast lowered, driven by its oars, it passed under the single bridge which united Lunden, north and south of the river.
It was early January, in the Year of Our Lord 1066.
Orm Egilsson stood at his place in the prow and peered out curiously. On both river banks wharves and jetties crowded to the water like the snouts of pigs to a trough. Further away buildings rose like a stony wave to cover the hills. Centuries after the last legionary had left his post the famous Roman wall was huge and unmistakable, a brooding mass of concrete and worked stone.
Orm's nostrils twitched at a stink of wood smoke, broiling meat, and sewage. Even the water was strange, black with filth, its surface littered with turds, ashes, scatterings of dead fish – and a few bloated human corpses. The city's sprawl and bustle and sheer scale dwarfed the petty towns of Normandy. Lunden was the hub of England's trade with Europe, and huge quantities of wool, England's principal export, flowed out of here to the continent. But there were green swathes of farmland within the walls. Nearly two centuries after King Alfred had ordered the reoccupation of Londinium, the English had still not filled up the old Roman space.
Today the city was even more crowded than usual, and the Norman ship had trouble finding a berth. Lunden was hosting the Christmas court of the King Edward, a ritual that was a descendant of the old witan meetings, and two archbishops, eight bishops, eight abbots, all five earls of England and all the nobles of the court, each with his or her retinues, had crowded here to turn the city into a nest of diplomacy, intrigue and gossip.
And, according to a letter sent to Orm by Godgifu of Northumbria, this year the Christmas court was an even more intense affair than usual – for, it was rumoured, Edward King of England was dying.
The ship berthed, and its crew and passengers disgorged into the narrow streets. The sailors left behind to watch the ships noisily ordered their companions to bring back only decent ale, maggot-free bread, and virginal whores.
Orm set off to find Westmynster, where Godgifu had promised to meet him. He had to ask directions several times, and the responses were in English or Danish, or a rough mix of the two. After centuries of immigration and invasion a new language was emerging from the rough argot of traders and soldiers, a rich mix of the vocabularies of the two tongues, all complexities in the grammar rubbed away.
Situated close to an enormous bend in the Tamesis, Westmynster turned out to be an island of gravel, cut out of the river bank by two tributary streams. Godgifu's letter said that the old name of this place was the Isle of Thorns. Here, supposedly, Caesar had forded the river during his first assault on Britain. Now the island had been drained, and Edward, in the course of his long reign, had established a royal palace, and an abbey.
And in recent years he had set about commemorating his pious reign by building a mighty new church here in the continental style. Still incomplete, its lead roof shining, it was a vast box of stone that made the English buildings nearby look rude and half-finished.
The streets around the abbey precinct were even more crowded than elsewhere. Somewhere in there, Orm supposed, great men were circling over a king's deathbed like buzzards. But Orm was a mere soldier of fortune, and his destination was not a palace – at least, not for now.
He skirted the abbey's walls until he spotted a tavern, a broken-down wooden building whose blackened thatch indicated it might once have been a smithy. It was unremarkable, save for the standard that fluttered in the smoggy breeze. The woollen tapestry, done in red and yellow, was a crude imitation of the Fighting Man standard of Harold son of Godwine.
And it was under this flag, just as she had promised, that Godgifu waited for him.
VI
'You look well.'
'So do you,' she said mockingly.
In Normandy and Brittany eighteen months before, as she rode with the warrior princes of Normandy and England, Godgifu had worn mannish clothes. Now pins studded her hair, and she wore a long dress tied tight at the waist, with heavy, expensive-looking brooches and clasps. She was dressed for court, not for the field. She was not beautiful. She was too short, her face was too square, her nose too long, her blue-eyed gaze too direct for that. But Orm was stunned by her mixture of femininity and strength. This was a woman to have at your side, he thought, when you won your land, and carved out your life. And, he saw, his own interest was returned in the lively warmth of her gaze.
'I haven't seen you since Normandy,' he began. 'Bayeux, that business of Harold and the oath.'
'Well, I know that.'
In the tension and confusion after that murky oath-taking, Orm, expected to stand beside his Norman lord, had lost track of Godgifu and her brother. And he had not seen her from that day to this.
'I was glad you wrote to me. I thought we might never see each other again. And we have unfinished business.'