William turned the scheme over in his mind. After some more careful thought, he decided exactly how his plan should be carried out. He also knew who would be the first man he would summon to aid him as he set it in motion.
Rollo Guiscard had been in the border country in the summer when King Malcolm pushed south into England. Rollo knew that he had managed to impress King William more than once and the king now appeared to regard him as one of the more able of his spies. William recognized and appreciated intelligence and subtlety, both of which he saw in Rollo. Accordingly, before leaving for Normandy early in 1091, the king had secretly summoned Rollo to a meeting attended by just the two of them and issued his instructions. Rollo was to watch the northern border and, should any advance be made while the king was out of England, instantly send word.
Rollo had fought his way through the various skirmishes of the midsummer, emerging almost unscathed; the discomfort of a minor wound had been more than compensated for by the awareness of a job well done.
Now King William needed Rollo’s services once more. A summons was sent, via one of the few of the king’s messengers who actually knew where Rollo was. Rollo was good at melting into the background: when, as now, he was with a group of dirty, tired soldiers grumbling as they prepared for their long journey, he was indistinguishable from the next man. At other times, his temporary identity as a merchant, a soothsayer, a dutiful son on his way to visit his sick father, or even a monk or a priest, would be equally convincing.
Slipping away from his companions, Rollo smartened himself up, groomed himself and his horse and set out to meet his king.
The conversation between the king and his spy took place in a quiet spot away from the king’s encampment, and the only eyes that observed the two men together were those of the king’s close guard. The king’s short, strong body was covered by a plain cloak, his reddish fair hair concealed beneath its hood.
‘You have done well, Rollo Guiscard,’ the king observed as Rollo rose from his bow.
‘Thank you, My Lord King.’
The king’s broad, ruddy face creased into a smile. ‘I was right, was I not, to fear an incursion while my back was turned?’
‘Yes, absolutely right.’
‘Right, too, to have sent you here as my eyes,’ the king went on. ‘Few men would have so quickly appreciated what Edgar Aethling was about when he came racing up here, sore because I had just booted him out of Normandy.’ He nodded sagely. ‘But you did, didn’t you? You guessed he would persuade Malcolm that the time was ripe to invade the north of England.’
Suddenly, the pleasant expression was gone, wiped away, and a look of fury filled the king’s face. ‘He had the king’s ear, curse him, for the man is married to Edgar’s sister. Curse her too!’ He added a string of oaths, his red face glowing scarlet. Then, calming himself, he went on: ‘Thanks to you, word reached me before too much harm was done. Now, we have a treaty — ’ he put heavy, sarcastic emphasis on the word — ‘and all is right with the world, is it not?’
Rollo, fairly certain the king did not expect an answer, did not provide one.
But for a soft creak from the expensive leather of the king’s boots as he paced restlessly to and fro, there was silence for some time.
Then William stopped and turned to face his spy. ‘I have another task for you, Rollo Guiscard,’ he said softly.
Rollo bowed. ‘My Lord King?’
‘England is open to such attacks all the time the border is weak. There are tracts of land where no men live, Rollo, and there the tough and ruthless border barons seek to make their own petty kingdoms.’
I know, Rollo thought. All the details were in my report to you.
‘I shall stamp my authority on these lands,’ the king went on. ‘I shall first take Carlisle, for it lies all but abandoned, and if I do not seize it, Malcolm will.’ He had resumed his pacing, one fist repeatedly punching into the opposite palm, but now he stopped and once again faced Rollo.
‘I will take my army into the north-west next spring,’ he announced, ‘as soon as the roads are fit to travel and the days begin to lengthen. In the meantime, I want you to go there and discover how the land lies. Who holds the town, if any man does, what the fortifications consist of, how many men may be drawn up against me.’ He went on talking for some time, succinctly outlining his plans.
‘I understand, My Lord,’ Rollo said when he had finished. He guessed there was more to come and, after a moment, the king spoke again.
‘I have heard tell of a man they call Hawksclaw, although his true name is Thorwald. He is, they say, of Norse descent, and he seeks to carve out his kingdom from other men’s lands, as did his forefathers.’
Rollo, too, had heard of Thorwald, known as Hawksclaw. The name was whispered along the border country with a mixture of fear and awe.
‘It may be that the territory I aim to stabilize in the north-west is not of concern to him,’ the king went on, his tone soft and thoughtful, ‘but I will not take the risk.’ His pale eyes shot to meet Rollo’s. ‘You know what I want of you.’
‘I do, Lord.’
‘Good,’ the king murmured. ‘Very good.’ He reached beneath his wide cloak and untied a small bag of soft brown leather from his belt. From inside it came the chink of coins. He handed it to Rollo. ‘Take this on account,’ William said. ‘You will be rewarded in full when this business is over and done with.’ His eyes still intent on Rollo, he added softly, ‘I do not forget my debt to those who serve me loyally and efficiently.’
‘As I well know, My Lord King,’ Rollo agreed. His service to the king was slowly and steadily making him a wealthy man.
Believing the meeting to be over, Rollo prepared to be given his leave and the king’s traditional parting blessing to those in his favour. But the king made no move; instead, he said, lowering his voice, ‘When your task in the north-west is complete, there is something else.’ He beckoned Rollo closer, and then spoke right into his ear.
As he listened, Rollo’s eyes widened and he felt a stab of fear.
The king finished speaking and stood back. He was watching Rollo closely, as if gauging his reaction. ‘My Lord King, that is. .’ Rollo sought for the right word. ‘Astonishing,’ he managed.
‘Astonishing, yes,’ the king agreed grimly, ‘but true, nevertheless. Or so I am told.’
‘And so many died,’ Rollo murmured, his whirling thoughts concentrating on the human tragedy.
‘It was treason,’ the king said sharply. ‘The result could have been far graver than it was. The intention is perfectly clear.’
‘Indeed so, My Lord,’ Rollo agreed hastily. He squared his shoulders and faced his king. ‘What would you have me do?’
As the king told him, Rollo felt something deep inside him tremble with atavistic dread.
After the king had led his army away on the long road home, Rollo covered his tracks, melted into the background and, leaving the Forth behind him, set off south for Carlisle. He had plenty of money — the king had made sure of that — and he completed his brief list of purchases in a string of small towns and settlements along his route. Nobody would recall a man who bought a modest amount of food, or a single blanket, or a warm winter cloak, but a gossip with nothing better to do might repeat the tale of someone who splashed out a bagful of coins all at once and bought out the shop.
He already had a good horse. Strega was a bay mare, nondescript and with no memorable markings, and she was neither particularly tall nor of noticeably fine breeding. She was, however, tough, strong and virtually unshockable. She and Rollo had been together for some time, and he had chosen her name in memory of the powerful witch women out of the legends of his native Sicily.