September 1052, Ewyas, Herefordshire
Distant horns bellowed, deep and long, threading into Alaric’s dream, drawing him from misty ghosts to his future. Blinking at the glare of a flickering rushlight, he pushed the hounds away and wiped smoky grit from his eyes. A few infants whimpered, and the longhouse trembled as men ran down from the loft. He searched for his parents and found them when a torch flared to life. Standing beside the doorway open to full night, they exchanged a few words. His father, fully armed and looking grim, snapped his sword into its hilt before vanishing into the darkness.
“Wake up! Wake up!” Alaric whispered to his younger brother, shaking him hard.
Rannulf protested briefly, burrowing into his furs until he recognized the sounds.
They scrambled from their pallets and dressed. They had been trained to be quick and quiet. Silence, their father had taught, was often the difference between life and death. They were all warriors, and, from birth, the warrior’s belligerence and instincts had been bred into them.
“Riders coming,” his mother said, joining them, waking their younger brothers.
At once, Alaric understood. The scouts who patrolled the valleys around Ewyas Castle had spotted horsemen and warned the garrison.
Alaric and his brother stepped out into the brisk September air, into the coming dawn’s silvery light. Searching the walled courtyard for his father, Simeon, he spotted him on the ramparts near the gate. Urging his brother on, Alaric headed to the wooden tower, the core of the compound where the fort’s inhabitants were gathering and where the castellan, Osbern “the Pentecost” d’Eu, waited with his captains. Alaric’s friends—Roderick, Edo, Johan, and Gilbert, all boys near his age—joined them. They jostled each other to glimpse the castellan. Osbern whipped his deeply scarred face from side to side, growling at his captains and gesturing wildly.
“Who goes there?” a sentry shouted to the riders approaching the closed gates. Alaric watched his father run along the edge of the palisade to the gate tower and peer down at them.
“Mile de Reviers,” came the answer, “from London. In peace and with my life, for as long as God grants it. I bring urgent news.”
“Open the gates,” Simeon ordered.
“Advance!” a guard called.
Alaric’s father hurried down from the ramparts and joined Osbern and his fellow captains who had separated themselves from the crowd to hear the news privately. As the gates closed, the riders, their horses spraying foam over the people pressing near, approached the tower.
At nine winters, Alaric, small and agile, ducked and darted through the throng and squeezed between the salt-pork barrels stacked near the tower steps. He crouched close enough to hear the messengers panting and all speaking at once.
“Again!” Osbern demanded.
“The Godwins are back!” Mile said, breathing heavily.
“When?”
“Days ago. Godwin surrounded the king. Edward absolved them and proclaimed the bishops of London and Dorchester, and the Archbishop of Canterbury outlaws. As are we, by Godwin’s demand. All French speakers,” he said, “especially those who supported Eustace and gave the king bad advice.”
“The Godwins are traitors! The king will not sanction this action against us all.”
“No,” Mile said. “His nephew is safe. As are some of the king’s hunting partners, his chamberlain, and those approved by Godwin or his sons.”
“Archbishop Robert?” Osbern asked.
“He fought his way out of East Gate and barely escaped,” Mile said. “A heavy purse is on your head, Osbern d’Eu. Harold Godwinson comes for you himself and vows to destroy Ewyas.”
“He would not dare. Besides, I will have time to—”
“You have no time!” Mile said. “Godwin forced the king to revoke the five-days’ grace. Harold’s ships and thegns sealed off the routes to Normandie, and he sent out a call-to-arms before King Edward’s proclamation. We skirted Harold’s forces on our way here, but they are only hours from Ewyas.”
“Impossible!” Osbern said.
“We fled as soon as word got out. Norman blood flows in London streets and along the roads. Get out if you can, for they mean to kill us all.” Without waiting, Mile rose on his stirrups and shouted to the crowd. “Normans are outlawed! Harold comes to slaughter you. Run for your lives!” The messengers wheeled their horses and left as quickly as they had arrived.
The castle’s inhabitants ran after them, screaming, crying. Fights broke out. Osbern turned to his men. “Get your weapons and gear. We leave for Scotia before dawn. Travel light. No carts, no sumpters.”
Simeon grabbed Osbern’s arm. “You cannot leave. There are families here, cooks, the foot soldiers.”
“Unhand me, d’Évreux!” Osbern yanked his arm free. “These creatures do not concern me. Normans must die to satisfy Godwin. Killing them will slow Harold. No Godwin will ever put his hand on me!”
“You command this post. You must see to their safety.”
“The king relieved me from that duty when he surrendered to Godwin.” Osbern pushed Simeon away. “Take command of these underlings if it pleases you.”
As Osbern entered the tower, Simeon’s face hardened. Without turning, he said, “I need runners, Alaric. Gather your compeers and meet me at the watchtower.”
Alaric worked his way through the crowd. People pushed and shoved, grabbing what they could. Armor clanked like the sound of a dozen smithies. Women scrambled to gather their children and their goods. Foot soldiers loaded a cart with weapons and the farrier grabbed his tools. Alaric found his friends and sent them to his father. He dragged his brother from the path of a horse-drawn wagon, and shoved him into a niche beside the chapel where he would stay until summoned. Alaric ran to join his father, who gave each boy instructions for the men under his command.
When Osbern and his company began to leave, a collective shriek rose throughout the castle. The mob surged and charged the troops, begging them to stay and protect their escape. The knights kicked and slashed at the crowd with their whips and swords, rearing their horses to clear a path. Osbern and his men raced through the gates, trampling anyone in the way, leaving behind those they had wounded or killed and even their own women and children.
The sky began to lighten, and with it came a hurried calm. As the sun rose, and throughout the morning, Alaric and his friends ran back and forth, conveying messages. Simeon directed an orderly evacuation, urging people to leave their goods behind and follow Osbern north. As people left the castle, the embittered villagers had gathered near the bridge at Dulas Brook. They jeered and shouted and called out their hatred, for they had long resented the French-speaking foreigners in their midst.
Only a handful of soldiers and their families remained behind with Simeon and his family. Among them were Alaric’s friends who fostered with his parents. When the last wagon departed, Simeon had the gates shut to keep the villagers out. Alaric retrieved his brother Rannulf and both joined their parents in the bailey. They did not wait long. When the shout came, Simeon turned to his wife, Julienne.
“You know what to do,” he said.
She nodded, cupped Alaric’s cheek with her palm a moment before taking Rannulf with her to the other children.
“Come,” Simeon said to Alaric.
He stood beside his father on the ramparts as Harold’s army crested a nearby ridge. With a battle roar, hundreds of soldiers afoot charged down into the valley. Within an hour, they had surrounded the castle and stood now in deathly silence. A score of mounted warriors rode slowly through the ranks toward the castle, flags waving, lances poised. In unison, the foot soldiers began to beat their weapons against their shields sending forth a tumultuous, thundering rumble.
“Open the gates,” Simeon commanded. Alaric scrambled to keep pace with his father as he pounded down the watchtower steps and ran into the courtyard. They joined the small group of unarmed soldiers, who stepped aside to let Simeon and Alaric take the lead position facing the entrance to the walled compound. Alaric had a sudden urge to urinate, his mouth dried, and his heart throbbed so hard he felt his eyes and ears pulse with each beat.
Simeon put a hand on his shoulder. “Steady, boy.”
As the riders entered the courtyard, the ground beneath Alaric trembled, and he twisted the rolled pennons in his hands while his father unbelted his sword. The soldiers behind Simeon stood quietly.
With his retinue ready for the kill, Harold galloped through the castle gates. The sun reflected off his helmet and nose guard. Shoulder-length blond hair flew behind him, and he rose like a giant on his enormous gray speckled horse. Encased in linked metal rings, his chest appeared massive. Alaric held his breath. They would all die in moments. Harold’s stallion stopped abruptly, reared, and steadied. Alaric’s gaze traveled from the hooves of Harold’s great steed up its broad chest, over a wooden saddle to Harold’s large hand gripping his reins. Daring to look further, Alaric saw Harold’s fierce eyes blazing at Simeon before he dismounted.
Urged by his father, Alaric stepped forward. “On Eadward kyng’s halve,” he said in Saxon, as fearlessly, he hoped, as his father stood before Harold.
Harold’s bushy eyebrows twitched as he focused his intense gaze on Alaric.
“On Eadward kyng’s halve, my fathur, Simeon d’Évreux, gifs you Ewyas burgh.” Alaric’s hands shook as he handed over the pennons that had flown above the tower.
Harold growled and threw the flags on the ground. Alaric watched his father’s composed features as he gave his sheathed sword to Harold. The two stared at each other with unflinching eyes. After tossing Simeon’s sword to one of his soldiers, Harold slowly drew his blade. Alaric cringed as Harold spoke.
“Yer either vera dumb or vera fraidless, Symon Defru.”