Book 6

A baleful hairy star⁴⁶ appears over the land, burnishing God’s punishment over night skies. Too late, people reassert their faith in God and Our Savior; hence, doom and sorrow are at hand. False prophets inspired by demons seize the hours, causing havoc, including visiting grievous injury upon Saint Cuthwin.

After great battles between diverse Kings and Earls throughout that same year, Saxon England falls to Duke William of Normandy at Hastings who slays beloved King Harold, his brothers, hundreds of housecarls, and thousands from the fyrd. William is at once crowned King of England by minions of his half-brother. Immediately subsequent to his rule vast, unmerciful chaos descends as William and the Normans bring death and ruin to Saxon England.

God’s unstoppable hand sweeps the land clean—sinners and the devoted alike—and Saint Cuthwin loses everything he values, and seeks shelter and balm in the eyes of Our Lord and Savior upon the stark coast of Kernowec.⁴⁷

 

A few days past Easter I was at the shop assisting Oslaf, now Master Oslaf. An extraordinary number of letters were being written due to the rumors everywhere of the high possibilities of war in the south. Merchants especially made plans, sending missives in all directions vital to their trade; my former shop was overrun with business. Hence, I voluntarily stepped in to help.

And concerning war? We know there was considerable truth in the rumors; in fact, had not King Harold himself supposed as much before us all?

Eadwig, not prone to pass along unsure rumor, told me prior to his departure that while traversing France and Normandy with His Eminence, he had heard nothing else but talk of William waging war. All knew that Duke William harbored bitter grievance against King Harold for taking the crown in violation of an alleged earlier oath to William.

Upon learning of Harold’s rise to Kingship, he grew sullen and withdrew to pray and ask of guidance. None of William’s minions were admitted to his person at this time. Those in his inner circle, however, knew William would without doubt invade, even though most of his wealthy liegemen and thralls opposed it.

Even Eadwig pointed out that “William is a wrathful man with considerable riches and steadfast against King Harold, God help us all.”

But by Holy Week, those in the north, and especially York, had taken advantage of twelve weeks leading up to Our Savior’s Passion, and there were many Easter feasts.

The winter had been no harder than usual, and thanes and crofters—plus the young Earls of Northumberland—enjoyed larders and ricks still ample.

All sorts wandered into York during these times. Markets and such during the weeks preceding Easter were littered with all stripes of the commonality.

Everywhere a new addition would ply the land, mainly wandering monks. Those who followed The Rule of Saint Benedict had great contempt for them. They had no brotherhood or semblance of office or benefice, and indeed if they had or had not taken tonsure was unknown, save by their own testimony.

At York that Easter, several wandering monks were around, but one—from Ireland because he spoke with strongly accented speech—was popular in his preaching, drawing great crowds with impassioned sermons about Our Savior’s passion.

The name he brazenly borrowed was Patrick, and most called him Patrick the Visionary. He would pass the bowl after his sermons, and made a modest amount of coin this way, also keeping two so-termed acolytes with him.

With the burden of business preventing us from hearing the rumors spreading wildly through York via croftsmen fleeing the countryside, it was not until—quite out of its usual time—the great bell at the York Minster sounded—without stop. Thinking there was a great emergency, we ran to the square.

There was a growing crowd—clearly most had left whatever they were doing and came a’running, as we had. Upon the rising platform of steps before York Minster, Patrick the Visionary preached, and already the crowd was approaching a frenzy.

He warned that God’s Wrath was upon us, written across the skies, and this claim seemed to catch a note of fear with everyone.

By questioning this person and that, I learned with horror that beyond the confines of York, where the previous night skies had been clear, a massive ball of fire was descending towards the land.

“Where did it strike?”

“It hasn’t. It is coming directly at us; it is the size of the moon. It is God’s wrath. We are lost! And this holy man is telling us why and how all souls might be absolved.”

Indeed, this wanderer had changed the tone and good nature of his Easter Week preaching. He now advocated the destruction of false prophets who he claimed filled churches and monasteries. He pointed up, and then behind him at the Minster: “God has spoken to me. Upwards is the punishment yet also redemption! Rid yourselves of these parasites of Our Savior’s preaching. They even use a serpent’s venomous mouth to deceive you about the time of Easter itself. Blasphemy!”

Several thousand now milled about with their number swelling rapidly. At once I anticipated that the Earl of Northumberland’s housecarls—resident a few leagues out of York—would be called upon. Whoever was in charge at the Minster—the Archbishop being in the south for the marriage of King Harold—would have gotten message to the Earl about this heretic’s incitement of the crowds.

At that moment the elderly Deacon-Priest, a brave man indeed, came out with two of his sub-deacons. With his great voice, he told Patrick the Visionary to get gone and stop his preaching apostasy and violence, or he would call the Guard; if not them, then request the Earl’s actions.

Speaking around Patrick, and over him, he called on everyone to pray to the Almighty, “For in prayer God comforts all.”

But Patrick the Visionary thrust his arm at them laughing, then turning to the crowd his face assumed an ugly visage: “Have you not seen their greed and immorality! Who has not been bled dry by them? They charge money to put the holy water upon your babes in arms! Charlatans and dupes are damned before God. This great hairy star is God’s Wrath upon them and whoever follows them! Now is the time, while God’s Wrath has not struck: Show him repentance—put every one of them to the torch!”

I vividly remembered the mob rule before the walls of Ludlow during the famine, and a sickening feeling took hold. I urged Oslaf at once to get out.

“There will be mayhem, Brother.”

The Deacon and his men, seeing how things went, fled into the Minster with the crazed people in pursuit. At our back, we could hear hateful words and shouts swelling.

Simple fate made matters worse.

That night it was clear skies above York. The malignant body above spiraled closer. The sight of it caused my bowels to loosen with terror. No one in and around York had seen anything vaguely like it during their lifetime. Certainly it could only presage the most heinous calamity. Its brimstone and fire tumbled earthward; some fled while others hid anywhere from the sight of it gyrating above, every hour drawing closer.

Those wise in the reading of stars and planets maintained contrasting views: Some supposed the ethereal spirits dripping from the surrounding fuzziness carried serpent venom. If any struck a human, they would be consumed in a ball of demonic flames. Worse, if not shriven, would be dashed to the eternal fires. This added to the tumult.

Not a few seers gave readings and interpreted signs from the innards of animals; still others sold talisman and by clever device passed along the secret of ancient mystics to avoid the awful might of the star’s heavenly strength. A few espoused wisdom gleaned from wood nymphs and gnomic beings privy to all such things.

The star illuminated things more than it had the nights before. Oslaf’s oldest brother lived close to the Minster; at sunup he carried a most awful warning to his brother: “Oslaf, all of you, Master Cuthwin! Patrick the Visionary has the heart of the crowd; the churchmen have fled, save the Deacon who was torn to pieces and tossed into the Ouse, God help him.”

“And where are the Earl’s thanes and housecarls?”

“Not in York, God help us!” He eyed back to the streets, for a great commotion swelled in the near distance. “The hordes are busy finishing their looting of the Minster, and are spreading out to smaller churches and such. I advise you, while they are so involved, flee! I am. Soon all property and money will draw them in.”

Indeed by now most shopkeepers had shut tight and erected stout barriers over anything, but I feared for all holy institutions.

I knew that once sated with small churches and chapels within York, those proximate outside its walls could be next.

One of the closest and most prominent was the Monastery at St. Mary’s. The Abbot and Abbess within the walls had nothing to repel such a mob. Most vulnerable outside the cloister’s walls were Cwenburh and her wards plus any who helped her with everyday needs. And of course, Matilda, for these two days she had been with her mother.

I set off at once, despite pleas from Oslaf.

“For God’s sake, Master Cuthwin, what if the crowd comes across you?”

I advised that he and Gunnhilda and the two shop boys stay within—behind the boarded-up doors—and if anyone broke in, crawl in the space between the walls joining the shop to my quarters. I always knew it to be good cover in emergencies.

Then I was gone, feeling confident Oslaf was of good sense and would act wisely.

On the way out from York, I saw smoke rising and curling upwards into a clear spring sky. People ran towards the smoke, others away—away was the direction of a woman carrying a child; she shouted a warning to me. I recognized her from my visits to the fishmonger’s pier.

“Get out! They are burning all the holy places. Lawlessness is everywhere.”

I moved faster paralleling the river. Upon the Ouse, a number of punts were frantically being poled upstream by fleeing occupants. On the opposing bank, people ran alongside, pleading for them to take them on board.

On my side of the river under trees now heavy with burgeoning of buds, I moved along in cover then emerged into the open. Looking up, I saw to my amazement and horror that the ghastly falling star was visible during daytime. A most unnatural outline of dull light against the blue of the sky—its brightness otherworldly.

My ominous musings drew my attentions from the immediate, departing from my constant practice of keeping eyes ahead and to the side. So when I emerged from under some willows, I ran into two cotsets.

“And what fine-clad fellow have we here, brother mine?”

Both were brutish fellows armed with cudgels. My wits scrambled, regretting my vanity in wearing a better grade of garb though I was not traveling the open road.

“I am a plain fellow going to St. Mary’s to seek absolution.”

“You wear fine clothes and are nicely shod, Master Plain Fellow.”

And the only warning I had, and then not much, was the beast who spoke—his eyes looked beyond me, and I was about to turn, and a great stroke of pain and blackness struck me at the same moment as a massive force threw me forward.

There had been three of the bastards.

I occupied a dream world with people I did not know and cannot recall in detail; whether it was a vision of purgatory or the gates to it I do not know. When I woke, I was looking up at the trees feeling a great cold in my bone ends. My vision consisted of black-and-white smudges, but I knew this was real and not a phantom place. And I could hear.

“I tell you, they left little for us.”

“This old cottar is slain, God help him. He lived long enough.”

Then I was picked up by the legs and dragged a ways, at once tumbling back to the phantom world—but this time I found Frog waiting. He said nothing, but sat on the raised house in the fens fishing with a plain pole.

He turned towards me, looked, then immediately went back to his line with one hand while eating a trencher with another. It went on: People, things and places drifting past like those on a river bank might while polling along in a dense fog. I was surely upon the fens.

“How long, pray God, have you left him lie here, you bastards?!”

That voice was Cwenburh sure enough, and she was in a temper. I remained awake, tried to speak but could not—to move my legs and feet, but could not.

Someone took my hand, and I knew at once it was Cwenburh.

“Cuthwin, can you hear me? Do not die here like a miserable wild creature. Can you hear me? Give a squeeze to my hand.”

And I did—praise God, my hands worked.

“Ah! He hears. By Jesus, Our Savior, he will live! Come on, you louts!”

So it was this way for a long time—I would hear things, could use my hands, and one thing sure, became warmer. Most voices were Cwenburh’s, then Oslaf ordering Gunnhilda to do one thing or another, Matilda confused, asking questions.

And then laughter of young girls. But I could not make sense of this, for my mind was addled, and familiar words came together in uncertain order. Only if someone spoke very simply and briefly did I follow all.

Cwenburh perceived this, but I could tell a Healing Woman attended. Her presence I detected by my nose, both that and my taste worked well, for she smelled like rancid lard and her potions and balms tasted and smelled worse.

And like of old, Cwenburh would argue with her about price.

During quiet times, Cwenburh, a little at a time told me what had happened, and events subsequent.

“Cuthwin, they hit you most across the back, less in your brain pan, God be praised.”

I joined Gunnhilda in the mute world, but feeling was returning to my lower regions—I could now feel the need to make water and complete the act itself.

Time passed without notice.

“I tell you, Mistress Cwenburh, he shall recover fully and you owe me a pound silver, holy woman or no.”

“We shall see.”

“See? See?! Our agreement was I work by time not deed.

“What is time if no deed is done?!”

It was the first time I awoke and made absolute sense out of what was said, and without knowing I was falling back on my God-given gifts, I said, “For the love of Our Savior, Cwenburh, give her the coin.”

There was a whoop from both, and the Healing Woman proclaimed, “And see! He even speaks wisdom.”

I also could take a bit of solid food, though first being given a good dipping in heavy broth. I had spent April and into May in the shadows, and Cwenburh attended me full time. Her time under oath to Mother Margaret evidently was over and had been concluded early. I came to the hasty conclusion that the gravity of my injuries had mitigated even this harsh woman’s dark view of husbands. Cwenburh revealed a different story.

“The crowds reached St. Mary’s and burned the outer buildings, the swine. I barely made it down to the river with the girls. It was mayhem. They nearly murdered Matilda, because of her disfigurement—and would have if I had not stepped in with a stave. They were all cowards.”

And like quarreling rats, they looted relic, plate—anything of value—breeching easily the wall of the Monastery grounds. And, God praise her always and bring her sainthood, but Mother Margaret held to her grounds, and the poor woman died a martyr. It was then the Earl’s men belatedly arrived and commenced their Godless reprisals.

Cwenburh had seen hangings before and after the famine at Ludlow, but never in this rapid and rapacious a manner.

“Father Abbot pled with the Earl’s men against this, but it did little good.”

They hanged dozens—distributing them like butchered geese here and there between the Monastery and Minster of York—from any point high enough—disallowing anyone to take them down. Within a few days of the sight and smell of this carnage, the Earl’s men judged fair enough warning. Hairy star or no, this was the fate of thieves and murderers who brooked the peace in Northumber and sanctity of holy places.

Foremost amongst the Earl’s men was a familiar name, Aldwulf-of-York now High Sheriff of the entirety of the Earldom. And it was the inevitable irony of fate that Patrick the Visionary, the originator of the riot, was never apprehended.

Daily healing and rest were my lot. Cwenburh rented a large building adjacent to the River Tees with a residence at the rear previously owned by a recently deceased coopersmith, dedicated to decadent living and devotion to his cups. Resident with us was Gunnhilda who for practical purposes became one of our family. With this came concerns for the young girls from St. Mary’s, yet so far Herself had not broached this topic.

Cwenburh informed me of the rising matter of Gunnhilda and Oslaf, the two now completely in love with each other. Obedient Oslaf was vigorously—even virulently—opposed by his parents taking a mute as a wife. Gunnhilda living with him at his shop was disallowed. His stiffnecked mother and father assumed children fathered upon a deaf mute would be born cursed by demons.

Oslaf’s rebellion—slow in coming—was in the offing.

When not in company with one another, they were in abject misery, and would sneak off frequently.

“Well, Cuthwin, there will be a little one coming soon whether the two old squints desire it or no. They are the demons.”

In the spacious residence, where a half-dozen children had been raised by the cooper’s several successive unfortunate wives, reassembly of my brain pan was the main concern. The Healing Woman, Brigit the Pict, and Cwenburh quarreled about what I looked like prior to the cudgel’s fall.

“I tell you, he is my husband, and I know what his brain pan looked like, and that is nothing like it. He looks like a rabbit.”

“Ah, nonsense. He looks fine. I know my business.”

“Well, you might know your business, but I know Cuthwin, and he doesn’t look like a rabbit.”

And they would argue on: Then, Cwenburh, holding off her fee, would have her unwrap my sore, miserable head, and re-shape it with one of her wicked instruments, causing me unparalleled agony.

Howls of pain rattled the old roof planks and made the waddle flake off the walls.

Finally, I conveyed to them that even if I looked like a stoat or a hedgehog, for the love of God’s mercy, leave me be until the bones fused.

And thank God, they showed mercy.

During the earliest days of my healings I was so occupied by swallowing potions, elixirs and having my head reshaped, I asked few questions. One that lingered was with Mother Margaret murdered, her highly placed influence would be no more.

True to my suspicions Father Abbot was opposed to having a shelter for homeless girls, likely knowing himself incapable of controlling his notoriously errant monks from such proximate temptation. He began to complain of its great expense, always the enterprise’s weakest link. It was impossible to sustain the effort without the skills of Mother Margaret.

With the girls’ outbuildings and such destroyed, my associative faculties returned to me enough to suspect where the girls were being kept. I was being spared burdensome details. So I used my time abed to associate the details with the clearest facts. The girlish outcries continued, always from the same direction, and if anything became more audible and numerous.

I was familiar with the old cooperage and knew well the building fronting the river was big for the needs of such work. Also, frugal Cwenburh would never pay for space not needed.

In May I was much better. One afternoon I was enjoying Cwenburh bathing me with a warm cloth. The smell of wool was strong on her, and since I was naked before God and my wife, this was one of the few times no one was allowed in.

Of course the shearing of wool and the newly taken fleece would be everywhere in York now. Home spinning was a good way for womenfolk to earn coin, and even with a sadly compromised brain, I deduced Matilda was busy in the main building spinning.

And she was not doing so alone.

“So, you teach the orphan girls to spin, Cwenburh? How many remain after the mayhem and chaos at St. Mary’s? I assume we are continuing the responsibilities of St. Mary’s now?”

She stopped her work, placed both her hands upon the rag that rested on my chest.

“I knew you had gathered all events together Cuthwin,” she sighed, looking back towards the building. “. . . Eighteen.”

“How will we feed, clothe, and shelter eighteen children, Cwenburh?”

“Actually, twenty. I misspoke. Two more came in yesterday—hidden away across the river. Got across, somehow, thank God.”

“How will we feed, clothe, and shelter twenty children, then? And me being next to dead, unable to work, perhaps ever.”

She resumed washing me, then became somber: “The weregilds. Eadwig has my touch with the future, and left us half. He did not want to argufy about it with you. He knows you consider it cursed.” She paused, knotted the cloth in her tiny fists. “Then our considerable savings put with that. Cuthwin, cannot you accept the weregild was God’s far-seeing gift for these waifs, no home, and too poor for even a speck of bread?”

“And if the winter is cruel? Even feeding three or four mouths takes art and experience. Silver cannot be eaten.”

“We must pray then it not be cruel.”

“Pray?! Did prayer do us or others any good at Ludlow when the Bishop sat inside provisioned and those outside ate thorns and pig droppings.”

“Cuthwin! Again? You still talk such blasphemy. What would Abbot Elsin say to you? What?!”

She soaked the cloth and now rubbed it across my forehead, seeing I had gotten irate. What she said struck hard. I knew Father Abbot as a man of profound faith and compassion before all else, and his faith held out before money and policy of church or King.

Cwenburh bent, and looked in my eyes.

“Will you not pray with me now, Cuthwin, for God to forgive the blasphemy you have just allowed?”

“Prayer?! We must get out of Northumber, Cwenburh. There were troubles before and there will be even more troubles to come.”

“Husband you cannot go north, south, east, or west for some time. Those bastards struck you, stripped you of every thread upon your body, and left you in a swale for the rawness to slowly kill you. It was God’s doings that Oslaf and Gunnhilda even found you. It is only prayer now.”

I lacked strength to argue, even if in my heart praying was of uncertain spirit. I could not sully Cwenburh’s unshakable faith which I envied. Nor could I question her nature to help unwanted children, and in truth I did not want to, for I loved her for it.

We had been separated by evil forces for so many years, I vowed we would be parted again in one way only.

I wanted out of Northumber, and if healing was the only way to do it, I would do so. The experience of years told me that with the amount of resources we had, we could afford a virtual begang of wagon and escort. Then we could thread several hundred leagues south, get a bit of hide-age before we ran out of silver, and face being left to our own resources with a brood of mouths. But the season must be kind, might God help us? But that took faith.

So at least one of us had that.

To an Innocent like Cwenburh who believed in the eventual goodness of God, pounds of King’s silver seemed to offer an eternity of God-ordained promise. My own beliefs? Might I become a vagabond blasphemer like Frog? So she and I prayed together: I prayed not to become wild like Frog while Cwenburh asked God that the season be good to us. This made prayers possible for us that day in sad, doomed York.

My recuperation was slow. The ready repair of youth departed. The recovery seemed faster above my waist than below; indeed, my feet and legs did not function well at all. The irony of being wheeled around in the same vehicle I had built and designed for Matilda amused me.

Rumors of great matters became a fireside activity at the livery, pieced together after the riots. Mostly they concerned the doings of King Harold, his Earls and Nobles. King Harold became the center of a conversation of a social circle of loyal businessmen who helped shepherd me through my grievous injury with good fellowship.

Often we would repair to the cooperage; I in fact became something like the sponsor of them. Cwenburh would settle in the girls after their evening prayers and join us.

It was acknowledged Duke William would invade the south in late spring or summer, but summer was nearly gone, so this fact flew in the face of our fears.

“I tell you, I have been dealing with hardened boatmen for years, and they all say that summer will be the only time a great army could cross.”

Not a few reminded that Duke William was a hateful, vengeful Norman. Further, he would claim his rightful place even if he had to part the seas between France and England!

Yet talk always returned to the business of York, foremost, and above all else was the raising of church and town levies. In fact, all were raised. This of a sudden dragged Herself into the fray. Cwenburh’s shelter for girls drew a levy equal to that of an animal dealer or wholesaler in flesh for market.

So the troubles began—Cwenburh maintained a state of readiness for any official brave enough to confront her.

“We do not raise girls, as you would sheep, the greedy bastards. When they eventually are placed with fullers or some such, the money still goes to Father Abbot, he being no less greedy than the King.”

And daily concerns maintained their usual flow of days as we approached September that always begins with the grandness of St. Giles Festival. Hence, the entire town and countryside were still recovering when the skies opened and great sorrows descended. Perhaps as some said, this was in retribution for the bawdy revelry of the Festival. Panicked boatmen grounded their craft hard in the mud and ran through York shouting, “Harald Hardrada has landed beyond Hull with Earl Tostig—they both have joined. Their host of boats and men will be coming upriver soon for blood and loot. God forgive us all.”

This was the most unexpected news possible. Nothing from the north had mixed with the countless forms of gossip about Duke William’s grievances from the south.

Harald the Giant (as he was known) and Earl Tostig were indeed ugly surprises. These two embittered nobles struck all with equal horror to that of the hairy star, but unlike the interpretation of a heavenly invasion, their motives and reasons needed no speculation. Though little specific was known about the personality of Duke William, the natures of Harald the Giant and Earl Tostig were known throughout the earldom and everywhere beyond.

No seer or reader-of-sign was required to know Earl Tostig, brother to King Harold, who had his earldom seized by the old King Edward two-plus years before. Crazed by hate, he meant to regain his domain and do it by violence, then once in control, mete out bloody retribution.

The murderous Tostig’s ejection by King Edward was a great balm for all in Northumbria, and especially York where he was a bane to business and folk alike.

Now he was back with Hardrada who had long-established odious legends alluding to his crafty hoodwinkings, followed close by murder and destruction of those he deceived.

Rumors preceded him: “He stands two heads higher than all men, and eats his meat raw and kills men by enclosing his hand about the head of enemies and squeezing their brains out. And worse, he enjoys such.”

Cwenburh and most others voiced these fantastic attributes. Fantastic or not, the terrible men’s approach was monitored daily. It took no little common sense to gather as much together and evacuate York while there were still leagues between them and York.

Even without Harald the Giant, Tostig would be deranged with a desire of revenge—especially on those in York who participated in his downfall.

Two days passed, then witnesses arrived in York with tales confirming earlier accounts of the giant king’s ruthlessness: Harald Hardrada’s forces burned a small village to ashes without seeming to have purpose or aim in it. Then worse news followed: Harald Hardrada and Earl Tostig and their combined forces of boat and foot were en route up the Ouse in force—hundreds of ships containing all the needs of warfare.

Earl Morkere, now lord of all Northumbria, also had boats and forces on the river. But all knew the young inexperienced Earl and his brother could never successfully deal with so many Norsemen, even if not led by Godless monstrosities like Harald Hardrada and Tostig.

There was no time to ponder who would engage who, or how it might turn out. Whatever happened, the young Earl would be no match, and if he and his men engaged, they would all be slain.

The bounty for looting in York would be a rich reward for any army.

I looked on as quick preparations were made by Cwenburh and my household. I warned from experience, “You must not only go, but get well hidden in the thickest of woods, burying anything of value. They will follow and search. The children are fodder for slave dealers.”

It was not long before I was confronted by an agitated Cwenburh who had become uncharacteristically hasty in her thinking.

“Husband, you need go with us. We have a cart, and strong boys to push it.”

“What in the devil would the great men and their scum want with me, Cwenburh? Am I slave material? Would I have great wealth? I am not so rich in prospects that I am afraid to meet God. But you have the girls, Matilda, and household—everyone—and the resources to survive. You have what bloodthirsty swine value. Go! I shall be left alone by my desire. Remember the last time you went contrary to my instincts.”

“In faith I do, Cuthwin. You did not need to voice it.”

“Cwenburh, I fear your stubbornness—I respect it, but fear it. So, I’m sorry.”

“And if they set the place afire?!”

“And if the hairy star comes back? Or Patrick the Visionary and his ogres? No, just go to the forests, hide, use all the craft that these others do not have. You are half vixen, Cwenburh. We learned together. Lay in wait until you see which way events turn. Survive! They say King Harold will without a doubt come north. And he is not the young Earl with a piddling of men and such. And you have left me with much bread and meat. I shall share a daily feast here with the birds.”

We embraced, and I held her close for the sheer magic of it. She knew what I said to be hard truth. The wheels on the cart used to transport me caught every rut and hole, and even the smallest of the girls could walk four-times that speed. To Danes or Tostig’s thanes, any one of those girls was a fortune as slaves. This was the cruel reality about those who invaded.

What followed was a mysterious but blessed day of quiet which gave all time to prepare. I hobbled about using two stout sticks; I went to the door, sat, and watched others exit York. Some would stop, bid me well, knowing I had no chance to retreat.

Not to raise such sympathy I went back inside. Besides, I had a better vantage at the back where the cooperage had a dock on the River Foss. It was dilapidated now, and at the lowest, tides were dry, an expanse of river mud extending between it and the river.

Between tides, groups of fat, lazy gulls stood, flat webbed feet planted in the mud. Their ebony backs caught the late summer sun. Around the flats, and darting beneath the old docks along the Foss, a few remaining swallows hunted—catching quantities of bugs needed for a long migration—one that would bring them south to enchanted lands.

Hobbling out upon this old dock I sat—here was privacy, and I could see downriver to where the Foss joined the Ouse. As the great tide pushed in from the never-tiring sea, it drove the river waters back; they would rise, and the invading boats would arrive. It would make another dreadful sight I would endure. The sun passed further overhead, and as it warmed the lazy gulls, it did me, too. Despite the sadness of this day, I enjoyed the first quiet moment I had known in a long time.

I awoke to a warm night and bugs stinging me—taking my blood. The tide was fully up, but everywhere along the river front it was quiet. Boats had been left there days before, their owners fleeing inland. The river had risen and most of these craft drifted about on their tethers.

Above there was no moon, and only a few tiny torch-lights could be seen carried, those coming down the opposite bank. Following their path, I saw them grab the lines, draw the boats in, and get aboard.

They were thieves of course, always the last to leave, and first to harvest the bounty from other peoples’ misfortune and fear. But there was not a sound, aside from the frogs upon the marshes singing their constant unfathomable jabber.

Looking below me, I could see it was an extraordinary high tide, most advantageous for larger boats ascending—they would have planned their arrival for that, of course.

I withdrew, returning to my pallet. I gathered together a pile of round stones, perfect for throwing. These would give pain to thieves and other petty sorts who ranged up and down streets, stealing what they could from households who had fled.

I woke just at the commencement of false dawn. I tested the air for sound and scent, for I was warned that Norsemen in such a mass stink of fish.

Outside it was a hush; only the first bird songs were heard as the dawn woke them. Between the cracks in the cooperage’s battings, light grew bolder; but all was quiet.

This ceased with a thump on my door. The visitor then tried it at once and found it barred. I took up stones, and got set.

“Master Cuthwin, I know you are within.”

It was, God help him, Oslaf. With rich inventory and coin-in-house, what imaginings could have made him stay. I bade him come in the rear way, and soon he was beside me—looking forlorn, offering to start a fire.

While he did so, I was sorely tempted to give vent to worry and frustration: Why had he stayed? Glancing to me, while getting the fire going, he explained. His voice was heavy with despair: “Oh, Master Cuthwin, Gunnhilda has hidden in the wall and she will not come out. Further, the poor thing wants me to join her. I cannot get her to see reason; she is wild as a she-badger. Maybe this is what mutes do when threatened. Anyway, my people took all of value. My mother and father are very angry.”

“They did not take everything of value. You are the person of value. What if Tostig’s thanes or the brutal Norsemen cut off your hands? For the love of God, get out. Reach in there, drag her out and, if needs be, tie her up and sling her. She is as tiny as a wren.”

He sat down at the hearth, crossed his legs, and glared into the fire.

“She is wedged in there like a dormouse. I cannot use force. I have not the heart, and she is heavy with my child.”

So on this most fateful day of Saxon history, with violent men plying their way upriver to loot and kill, I sat in my bed and listened to Oslaf’s quandary. While doing so, the good soul made us hot spelt porridge and worried after the future.

“My mother and father know of her state by me. They are invested heavy in the shop. It is God’s command to obey your father and mother. And they are right.”

And that was the way of working Saxons. What could we do about events around us? So I reclined, proud to enjoy his friendship and confidence. I admired that he cast aside all threats of great men and their thirst for power and wealth; also, he finally was fighting his hidebound parents.

Instead he worried about the tiny woman who was not more than a girl, now big with his child. This was very well done—in this I was identical to Cwenburh, God forgive.

Even amidst this catastrophe, my faith in God increased—for surely it was He who gave strength to poor Oslaf. Ordinary folk like Oslaf, who were faithful and God-fearing and practiced the teachings of Our Savior were the stuff of genuine grandness. Had not I faltered in my time?

For nothing short of God sending an avenging angel from heaven hurling balls of fire before her might the Almighty rescue us from fiends like Tostig and Harald the Giant. If only I could pray for such in good heart and spirit.

It is terrifying when the axe, as it were, has risen but not yet fallen. And the axe of Harald and Tostig continued its pause. Upon the river and in the nearly deserted town, no marauders or host appeared, despite the city being without defenders.

Thousands of townspeople were salted throughout nearby woods and crofts, with all their valuables and much of their household items stashed away with them.

Some of these sent family members into town intermittently to confirm there was still no sign of enemies. Yet all was not safe, for ongoing eyewitness reports confirmed Harald the Giant and the demented Tostig were harrying not far off. They were stealing all fodder and food from every croft and manor, and when done, burning and killing many.

Cwenburh and I exchanged messages and I found frustrating her ignorance of writing now more than ever before. She knew better than anyone to stay put.

“Why have the bastards not come all the way up the Ouse, God help us?”

The liveryman and his eldest daughter trekked in and called on me. Word had circulated to those hiding about those of us who had stayed in York, mostly the elderly and infirm like myself. By this time, I had coached Oslaf in the art of persuasion, and Gunnhilda came out of her hole to wait things out with us at the cooperage. They were welcome company, for over the years solitude had become strange to me.

Oslaf made occasional forays throughout town, curious about the strange calm. It was then he met those fleeing from the countryside southeast of us. This seemed a portent, but I could not parse the continuing delay in York.

It was now the fourth day since the town’s evacuation, and those in hiding were bug-bitten, uncomfortable from their sleeping pallets and lack of home comforts. Further, the children were troublesome. Switchings, with parents screaming for order, made all the camps even more maddening.

The liveryman shook his head and complained, “I tell you, Cuthwin, out there, I am almost of the opinion we should send word to the murderers to get it over with. We can make a new town, but we cannot repair our brains with all this madness.”

On the fourth night following, I again took my seat upon the old dock, and at sunset saw an immense conflagration beyond the junction of the Ouse with the Foss—towards the south. Since the wind was from that direction, the smell of burning wood overwhelmed and smarted the eyes.

Oslaf sat next to me taking a repast. I knew time was short.

“Oslaf, it is time for you to be gone. See that. It is from Fulford. It is a harbinger of disaster. Get out and into the woods to your family.”

“I am angry with them for saying cruel things about Gunnhilda. The poor girl read our lips—my mother’s lips—and now she prefers the hole in the wall to the presence of Mother.”

“Indeed, did not the stubborn lady know she reads lips well?”

“No. Furthermore, Gunnhilda can speak or cry out, though it is a strange sound!”

“How so? How did you find out?”

He struggled around words, until I was sorry for the question.

“I just did.”

I saw it was hopeless and put my hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring pat. “Time to be a man, Oslaf. She is here—unawares—take her suddenly, toss her over your shoulders and spirit her off to the woods.”

He looked at me and, after an initial anxious face, understood. Such an action with Gunnhilda would be like grabbing a stoat by the back legs. He smiled and turned his attention towards Fulford, for the inferno grew; massive, black, greasy smoke rose many furlongs into the sky and now began to be felt in our lungs.

Since the work area of the former cooperage was so large, I suggested he and Gunnhilda could ascend into the beams and rafters above and hide.

“Greedy men seeing nothing but an old crippled man—and in a hurry—do not look up, Oslaf.”

Abruptly, the peace was disturbed by a voice from the far side of the river: “Hallo! Hallo! Anybody!”

It was a boatman and, seeing the light from our fire inside, he approached closer. Its two polemen repeated, “Hallo in there! God’s peace to you. Poor injured souls here need help, Our Savior pity them.”

Having armed at once, Oslaf stood by me with a cudgel. When the boat ran up into the mud, I sounded things, “And God’s peace to you. Who are you? What do you want?”

“We transport those who flee from what remains of the Young Earl’s army at Fulford. They were defeated, most butchered by Harald and Tostig’s men, God help them all. The few surviving, like these, run for their lives.”

“Those who need shelter and help are welcomed here, but they must come up unarmed.”

“Oh, there is no fight left in these poor devils.”

We helped six into the cooperage and not only was there no fight in three of them, the other three had wounds deep to their innards and their hours were few.

The punt-men did not take risks for nothing—but for silver or anything valuable in trade. They collected same from survivors who had anything and were desperate for quick transport. In addition to these six souls, they had scavenged valuable armor and weapons to be cached and sold later. They hurried off, back towards Fulford, before saying another word. Their passengers were not happy with them.

“Those boatmen are carrion crows, the turds. There were dozens of the fuckers lingering on the river for such miserable opportunities.”

The speaker was a massive Dane who carried what he told us was his son, and this is the moment we met Thorkald the Dane. He was a housecarl of the Young Earl Morkar’s brother and fought with them. “The young dimwits didn’t stand a chance before the sly Harald and that maniac Tostig.”

Thorkald had fought for a half-score of warlords for thirty-odd years, and had rarely seen a battle go so wrong and led so poorly.

His son was wounded the worst of all of them. Within the cooperage, we saw our share of the tragedy at Fulford at once, for the mortally injured died with merciful speed including, sadly enough, Thorkald’s only son.

“He was but seventeen, God be with him. He would not stay home and his aunt grew weary of him.”

Thorkald wept miserably. Gunnhilda attended him. Above his neckpiece he endured an ugly gash, and though it must have pained him awfully, he sat without flinching while it was washed clean.

“His mother died after bringing him into the world, and God seems to have forsaken the both of them,” he told us.

Two of the three who survived started out to the northwest the following day towards their homes, both being fyrdmen—doing their annual duty to the Earl. They wanted no more of York, Fulford, or anywhere else there was struggle.

When Thorkald tried to leave, we insisted he stay—his wounds would just suppurate and he would die, unless he got rest and perhaps even access to a Healing Woman. His wound was deeper than it first appeared and he had bled badly.

The necessity to carry his son to safety drove him to trade his buckler and armor to the boatmen. Now all the injury caught up with him. Soon, he fell away into unconsciousness as his body absorbed the shock of the injuries.

I was sure the victors would be upon York to collect their reward. With the young Earl out of the way, there was nothing before them.

I brought Oslaf and Gunnhilda to me, and taking their hands, pulled them close. “Now look! There is no doubt about them coming. Oslaf, Gunnhilda—go to where Cwenburh and her girls hide and stay with her. She is half fox, and no one will ever catch her. Do this now. She will be beyond the others, so be patient and search.”

Since Gunnhilda now loved Cwenburh above all other women-folk, I had no reason to repeat my advice. Picking up what food I could and stuffing it in a large wallet, I drove them out as if they were poultry. There was no time. Fulford was only a league from where we were and anyone could travel that in an hour.

That left me with the unconscious Thorkald, which of itself was ungood. When they found one of the Young Earl’s housecarls here, they would murder him and possibly me as well.

Despite being maimed, I dragged the massive Thorkald a little at a time, doing what little I could to conceal him.

I put out the fire, barred the front and back entrances, and throughout the day heard survivors passing on the river, and others in the street, trying doors, only to move on. From outside, the place would look like others—threadbare and abandoned.

The streets remained quiet, the river quieter, and soon the smell of the conflagration around Fulford went away. The tide rose, but when I peeked through the rear door onto the River Foss, I saw nothing.

I did what I might from what I learned with horses and cattle years before, cleaning out Thorkald’s wound. In doing so, I removed all his clothes—discovering that his wounds were more extensive than we thought. Just the old wounds foretold a body that was a composite of scars and badly healed bone ends. I covered him with blankets—for there was nothing more I could do. I prayed his battered soul was far better off than his body; I feared he soon would be in need of the former and not the latter.

God in his unknown ways of mercy and wisdom saw fit to save York for the time. Harald and Tostig’s forces, like vultures swollen with their pickings, heard that King Harold and his army of nobles, housecarls, and fyrdmen were hurrying north. Tostig and Harald Hardrada, confident after crushing the young earl at Fulford, rushed to meet the King, knowing their two armies would crush his one.

With King Harold out of the way, the practical Harald the Giant knew he would be King. Any pretender would need to deal with him and Tostig.

Five short days later they met intrepid King Harold and his Saxon army at Stamford Bridge. With justice of heaven behind them they were victorious—killing his brother Tostig and rival Harald. The remaining invasive force fell into rout and ruin and scattered like dogs.

We of the north were jubilant beyond description.

Without exception all came out of hiding.

The timing of our King could not have been better, and throughout the north it was accepted that Duke William had used his great wealth to secure the use of the combined forces of Tostig and Harald of Denmark. In making this dark bargain, William took extra time and extra resources to prepare for invasion, explaining why he had delayed.

Now it was thought that invasion from Duke William would be put off for at least another year, giving King Harold time to secure himself.

In those wonderfully few days following the King’s grand victory at Stamford Bridge, York opened like a flower. Shops and businesses were at once rejuvenated from the evacuation; churches and monasteries renewed their rebuilding after the Patrick the Visionary riots. The mood was equal to any festival.

More thoughtful minds were ignored.

The indestructible Thorkald lived, though reduced to bones and sinew. His past military service was extensive having fought on both sides of the sea since a boy of seventeen. As William’s defeated surrogate force grew to fact from rumor, Thorkald’s experiences with powerful men enabled him to see matters with a more lucid mind.

He was not optimistic.

“I cannot speak to the timing from the north, but Duke William would never throw in with Tostig or Harald, let alone both. I fought for William once and against him another time. I learned, we all did, that his heart is set on Britain and King Harold’s head. He is an intrepid, wily fighter. Listen sharp for news from the south; my guess is events are fast occurring there.”

And the worst happened.

Within the week, dispatch riders from the King rode through—beseeching everyone able to join the King in the south for the sake of Britain. Duke William had landed unopposed, and was readying to take on King Harold inland.

While Cwenburh tended Thorkald’s wounds, along with Gunnhilda, this was a great teaching opportunity for the young woman—I sat by with that news. Cwenburh’s question showed good sense and matched my own.

“Thorkald, why would not the King easily defeat one army when he just defeated two, God be praised?”

“They’re Normans, Mother Cwenburh, and fight from atop horses whose size is not much less in bulk than an ox, and caparisoned in leather to protect them against weapons from the ground.”

Thorkald continued to be our expert advisor: His past experiences were so thorough that as rumors flew from the south, he saw through most of them. Cwenburh and I guessed that as a professional soldier, his natural modesty would not admit that long ago he had moved beyond a soldier, but commanded and trained many foot soldiers for numerous lords and earls.

“Do not think Duke William has not come with his Normans. He is grisly in his ways when encountering resistance to his will. I fear for King Harold, especially as we have heard nothing. Few survive after losing a battle to William.”

We would have given anything for him to be wrong, but he was not.

About a week before Saint Crispin Day,⁴⁸ news came from the south that King Harold was defeated and slain at Hastings by Duke William. Saxons in the South did not accept him as King; hence William’s forces burned and looted their way towards London, defeating all in their way.

With that catastrophic development York fell into a lower state of mind than ever. Boat traffic up the Ouse all but ceased. People began to horde food at once. Grain prices shot up even more—threefold; meat became even costlier and all else followed. In fact, all food grew dearer within the city due to these speculations. Archbishop Aldred had been absent for some time. This itself caused unrest, for if he had been attending Harold and his brothers, had he even survived?

Unlike in croft and fields or tiny villages, towns of size had great dependence on markets and the goods flowing to them each week.

York was even more a market city. There were twenty-five or thirty-thousand people with daily needs for sustenance there. Disruptions due to the troubles fending off Harald the Giant and Tostig knocked many farms and such sideways. Their looting and destruction disrupted harvesting, storage, and transport of all crops. This was the primary reason prices soared in York, rather than genuine want due to a poor harvest.

By the time of the festival of Saint Andrew,⁴⁹ I had grown much stronger, as had Thorkald. He used a great staff to get around—and because of his military background it made him feel armed of a sort. I could now walk without support, though slowly.

We became quite the companions in our infirmities, and it gave joy to Cwenburh to have an extra man to oversee.

Thorkald was having masses said daily for his departed son, so we were on way to the church at Micklesgate for services. Not quite there, we heard with apprehension the great bell in York Minster ring—not anywhere close to an appropriate time for such peals. It was so close our heads rattled.

We diverted there and arrived at the spacious square before most. What we saw brought Thorkald to a frozen halt only a rod below at the foot of the long wide flagstone stairs: “Jesus save us. Normans!”

It had been years since soldiering in Normandy and France with freebooters. Yet Thorkald’s knowledge of Normans was fixed with a professional respect for those who lived from battle to battle.

There were a dozen of them.

They had brazenly ridden their proud-fleshed palfreys up the stairs—each animal worth a fortune anywhere—and there remained mounted high above us. They were armed and arrayed before the twin archway doors of the Minster, the animals’ braided tails switching back and forth.

Theirs was brazen conduct that was to reap an extraordinary result.

The bells’ tolling deafened, so we could not hear the talk in the gathering assemblage behind us. When the metal giants of a sudden ceased, the voices from the crowd seemed at once quite a din. A glance to the rear revealed the crowd exceeded any I had seen there before.

One of the Normans raised himself high as possible in his stirrups and yelled in broken, barely understandable Saxon: “Quiet before your new Lord!”

A pall fell over everyone at his word. Both doors opened and Archbishop Aldred emerged with his bishops, and other churchmen all in fine vestments. He carried his mitre, and compared to the hearty Eminence who appeared with King Harold earlier that year, he had aged markedly.

His vestments hung on him, and he was not much more than bones.

We all knelt, and even the Normans dismounted and went to one knee, though keeping a weather-eye on the crowd. They were a grim lot of Normans indeed.

Invoking the words of God and Our Savior, His Eminence made the sign over us, then handed off his mitre to an assistant, and with both hands motioned for us all to rise. At once, the Normans remounted. Several of their mounts defecated and urinated—the product running down the stairs. Several of them laughed and made light of it in Norman.

“These bastards overplay it,” Thorkald muttered, for it was poor enough to ride up onto the entryway platform, but quite another to find humor in its unsavory result, to so befoul a holy place.

The silence ended, and talk sprinkled through the crowd—like pebbles cast over the surface of water, each word producing a dozen others.

I craned a backward look; indeed there were thousands crowded into the square and approaches, meaning all exits and entrances were clogged with York residents. Not one of them had any love for mounted armed Normans who conducted themselves like pagan tribesmen.

Archbishop Aldred commenced speaking, and without device of word or gesture—in no way couching his message conveyed the disaster: King Harold was dead; likewise, his brothers were dead, and his sons in hiding. His Saxon army was defeated and mostly annihilated by William and his Normans. Duke William had this week been crowned and anointed King of England by His Eminence himself at Westminster. This anointing was done with full agreement by the Holy Father, Alexander, Bishop of Rome.

William’s first act was to confiscate all lands and rights in the name of the King, both in croft and town—though giving us rights as tenants if we maintained our taxes. We would live on for the time being under our old Saxon laws. Lastly, our new Earl of Northumbria, a Norman, was vested with King William’s powers, full confidence, and trust.

Absolute obedience and loyalty were expected and William demanded an Oath of Fealty from each of us.

Finished, His Eminence looked up sadly, took back his mitre and, with clear sadness, gave way the center to the Norman who had called for silence. Using the same inept Saxon, he ordered in a loud voice, “You heard His Eminence: All kneel and clasp your hands together and repeat the oath after me.”

No one moved. We all stared. For to the person of us, no Saxon or person raised under Saxon or Daneslaw ever conceived or dreamed that a Norman would become our absolute ruler, much less take away all our land and property in a single clap of greed and power.

For both these messages to fall upon our shoulder at once was like convincing all to believe crickets recited psalms and birds chirped the gospels.

“I said, all kneel, clasp your hands together and repeat the oath you shall hear.”

At once, His Eminence stepped forward and struck up a conciliatory tone with them in French, but within a few words the exchange became heated, with one of the Normans—in charge, but unable to speak Saxon, or not wanting to—pointed at us, made an emphatic gesture, which cut the Archbishop short.

All within the same moment, the crowd’s energy increased in heat and volume, and the Archbishop, his anger also roused, stepped forward and pointed at all the Normans, raising his mitre.

I was close and could understand enough Norman to appreciate that His Eminence threatened them, for their horses fell back somewhat, and the men looked at one another.

Looking hotly at His Eminence, they turned—glared out over the crowd, the same spokesmen shouting, “We shall come back, and you will do as ordered right enough, you whipped halfbreeds.”

While he shouted this on the crowd, His Eminence and the churchmen re-entered the Minster; then the Normans began to withdraw, easing their horses down the stairs. No one moved out of the way.

Most men present at least had a staff, a few others knives or some such portable weapon—and many were young enough to be in strong flesh. They were thoroughly angered at this devastation delivered by the enemy. Plainly put, the haughty Normans realized at a glance that despite their arms and horses, they were but a dozen, and surrounded by at least three or four thousand angry York residents.

The final epithet had done it, and several from the crowd called, “We will not allow you Norman dogs out of here alive.”

And in a surge which pushed aside me and those too aged or infirm, the crowd moved forward on all sides as if a single beast.

Thorkald yelled, “Grab my belt—follow, Cuthwin. We must get out.”

The Norman horses were unsure of themselves on stairs, and if on flat ground might have bounded forward and their great weight may have saved the rider, but not on the stairs which were numerous before the Minster.

So with mortal outcry, the Normans bellowed, their horses whinnied in alarm and tumbled downward, rolling over on rider and attacker alike and beginning a frenzy of thrashing to regain footing. But it was useless; in seconds, all were down and pounced on by the masses.

Thorkald pulled me away, and a parting grisly vision was of the mob tearing riders apart, weapons raised and lowered as high and fast as possible, and all of them red with flowing blood.

Horses tried to rise, but several of their riders had lances, and these had been seized by some of the crowd and thrust into the animals, bringing them down for good.

All was a ghastly jumble before this irrational livid tide of humanity, and the Normans were dead and torn asunder before Thorkald and I were shut of the area. Behind us were screams and the pathetic outcries of the slaughtered horses. It had been a calamitous error for all involved—the murderers and murdered. Now, blood ran profusely down the steps.

“The horses are now so much meat, and their riders will join their brothers in hell, the stupid shits.”

Thorkald moved me along through the streets, and despite his infirmity and emaciated form, I was impressed with his strength.

When he reached home, we barred the door behind us, and while I told Cwenburh and others the horror of things, Thorkald likewise barred the rear doors to river and dock. He then busied himself by moving aside a strip of batting and pulling out his sword, possibly secreted away on the night he arrived—despite his wounds and lamentation of his dead dying son. He faced a horrified Cwenburh.

“Oh, may God help us, Thorkald. What possessed them so!?”

“Hate for Normans, Mother Cwenburh. We must prepare to be gone. Any Norman Lord brooks no such calumny from commoners, much less Duke William, now so-called King. He will kill all of us sure as there is Satan in hell.”

I too knew—so well—that Thorkald recited the absolute truth and time was precious. Cwenburh herded the girls together, and all fell to their knees in prayer.

By killing a dozen, the mob had assured the near total destruction of York.

Thereafter, God seemingly abandoned all Saxons, as it had King Harold at the calamity with Duke William. In fact, we learned that Holy Father Alexander-of-Rome gave his blessings to brutish William in his invasion of England. The carnage that followed William’s conquest—his elimination of Saxons by class—showed he lacked the remotest foundations of Our Savior’s gospels. Also, I believe to this moment that it was God who had temporarily abandoned the Holy Father, afflicting him with the sins of ambition and avarice.

So it was the Saxon folk who in varying numbers survived William’s scourge and lived on under the toil of the Normans. True, the Saxon nobles and clerics who acquiesced fully to William lived on as well. But, it was the commonality who raised the foods, crafted the needs, and mended the broken that continued life under the teachings of Our Savior, necessitating watching their Saxon ways vanish in the years that followed. It is my belief, perhaps foolishly, that God resides with the innocent, not the guilty.