He glares at Oslac, who holds his tongue, which Tova thinks is probably wise.
‘We fool ourselves, over and over and over,’ Beorn goes on. ‘We’re all guilty of it, everyone who lifts a sword in anger. And I’m as guilty as the rest. The rebellion probably seemed to you some foolish dream we were all chasing. But it never felt that way. I thought it was the campaign that would drive the foreigners from this kingdom once and for all. I believed that in my heart. I believed it was fate, I truly did, and that eventually we would prevail – that all we needed was time.’
He shakes his head as he picks at a splinter on one of the floorboards. ‘For a while I did, anyway. I was wrong.’
Beorn
This is how it happened. The great rising against the Normans. I saw it all. I was there right from the very beginning. I was there when we slaughtered the foreigners in their hundreds in the streets of Dunholm that winter’s night, a year ago now. I was there when, not a month later, we stormed Eoferwic’s gates, and when not long afterwards we were driven from the city by King Wilelm, and forced to retreat back into the hills, with our hopes, like our banners, in tatters.
Just like your husband’s son when he heard the news, we all thought that was our last chance. We had failed to grasp it, and now it was gone. The ?theling himself thought it; for days afterwards he wouldn’t talk to anyone but would lie in bed for hours on end in the hall where he was staying. It was Earl Gospatric who rallied everyone, who settled the feuds and made men see that the struggle wasn’t over, but that if we were patient the country would rise with us.
We fought for Eadgar, but Gospatric was the one behind it all, helped by others from the great Northumbrian families. You have to understand that the ?theling was – still is – not much more than a boy. Only a couple of years older than you, girl. Like all young high-born men he was eager and impatient and could be ill tempered, especially when he didn’t get his way, which was often. That said, he was no fool; we would hardly have followed him if he was. He could hold a sword too, although you wouldn’t call him a warrior. The closest he’d ever come to battle were sparring matches in the training yard. We needed him, for kingly blood flowed in his veins, but likewise he needed men who’d give him wise counsel and who could lead in his name.
Gospatric was one of those. The fiercest of them. The best of them. The most determined. Strong-willed yet patient. He must be nearly fifty now, a little older than your husband, I’d say. Not as old as you, priest. Already bald except for a crown of long white hair, he had a gut like he had a whole pig stuffed under his tunic. His fighting days ended long ago, but he knew how to inspire respect. He knew how to wage a war. And he never stopped believing. Even as we licked our wounds in the weeks after our defeat, he was sending out messengers across the kingdom, into every shire: men like the staller Ascytel who you say came to Heldeby. He wanted to get word to Englishmen everywhere: to everyone who was suffering under the foreigners, to all the scattered bands hiding in the woods and the marshes, to all those living in exile in the lands of the Scots and the Welsh and the Irish. He urged them to come together and make a common stand.
We didn’t know who would come, if anyone. We all knew there was little chance of rousing the thegns in the south – those who had already given their oath to Wilelm so they might keep their lands. Too faint-hearted to fight, they were more worried about themselves and about what they would lose if they took up arms against their new lord and king. As for the rest, there was no telling whether they had the stomach for a long war, rather than the raids and ambushes and hall burnings they’d grown accustomed to. And how many common folk would leave their homes and their women and children and elders to join us? For we needed experienced warriors, but we also needed spears by the thousands if we were to stand a chance against the foreigners.
We had no idea, and as the weeks passed our hopes waned. A few heeded the call and sought us out, but not many. Not enough.
*
‘But they did come, in the end, didn’t they?’ Merewyn asks. ‘Men like Skalpi.’
Beorn nods. ‘Men like Skalpi. Yes, they did. Over the summer months a strange thing happened. Maybe news of our victories at Dunholm and Eoferwic, short-lived though they were, inspired a willingness to fight that hadn’t been there before. Maybe, like your husband, folk realised that if ever they could make a difference, it was now. Whatever the reason, just as men were whispering in Eadgar’s ear that the cause was lost and he should start thinking about exile or else seeking a reconciliation with the king, suddenly that was when they started arriving. Just a slow trickle, it was at first – a handful here and there. But soon the trickle became a stream, and the stream in turn became a flood.’