Conquest

‘Not falsely, I assure you. Allow me to explain. England is a land of Saxons in the south and east, and to the north and west of Danes and Celts. All are fiercely independent, but England has been a strong kingdom for a long time. Most of its kings have been Saxons and the majority of the earls are happy with that. The royal line of the Saxons, the Cerdicians of Wessex, goes back many hundreds of years, but the heir is just a boy, Edgar. That’s why Harold, my sovereign lord, took the throne. The threat from Hardrada of Norway and William of Normandy was so great, he had no choice.

‘England is a wealthy kingdom, the greatest prize in northern Europe, and envious eyes have coveted it for centuries. Now William holds the prize, but it is not yet firmly in his grasp. Harold had the finest army in Europe; thousands died on Senlac Ridge, but thousands more went back to their farms and villages. Some are fighting as mercenaries in Europe. If they could be persuaded to return and the men working their lands convinced to take up arms again, a new army could be recruited.’

‘But how can we help?’

‘You have lived with an occupying army for generations and learned to be patient and fight mobile campaigns using small bands of elite warriors. Let us spend time with you and your men and learn your training regimes.’

Rodrigo thought for a moment and looked at Count Diego. The Count nodded his approval.

‘I have half of my lord Sancho’s bodyguard with me for the winter, about a hundred and fifty men. Stay with us for as long as you like and, in return, you can teach me how to use that mighty axe.’

‘We are very grateful. We will help with the training and offer you whatever we can from our own modest experience.’

The servants brought in food and, when the table was ready, the ladies of the household made their entrance. First came Diego’s tall and elegant wife, Dona Viraca, with her ladies-in-waiting. She was followed by their daughter, Dona Jimena. She was tall, like her mother, with jet-black hair pulled back sharply from her face in a tight bun. She had the darkest of eyes and clear skin the colour of burnt almonds. Count Diego introduced the ladies, and the two visitors bowed. Dona Viraca nodded disdainfully, while Dona Jimena curtsied.

‘Come, Jimena, sit.’

Count Diego raised his goblet of wine. ‘To Jimena and her betrothed, Rodrigo, the finest match in Christendom. Also, to our visitors — may God protect you in your great challenge ahead in England.’

Dona Viraca, a woman of plain worlds, spoke bluntly. ‘Are you married, Hereward of Bourne?’

‘Lady Viraca, my wife died recently. Torfida was her name. I have twin daughters, Gunnhild and Estrith, who are now nine years old.’

‘I see… I am sorry to hear of your loss. Where are your daughters now?’

‘Alphonso and I are part of a family of friends who have been together for many years. We are exiled from England and now live in the lands of the Count of Toulouse, near the city of Cahors.’

‘I know the Count, a silly little man of no consequence. I also know Cahors, a city of merchants and bankers with too many Jews for my liking. My family is from Carcassonne, a much more appealing city.’

‘I don’t know it, Lady Viraca, but I’m sure your judgement is impeccable.’

Count Diego smiled wryly. ‘Oh, it is, Hereward. Dona Viraca is like the Pontiff himself — infallible in all things!’ With that, he waved to the waiters to pour the wine so that the meal could begin.

Dona Jimena spoke with a soft timbre and modest demeanour. To Alphonso’s relief, Dona Jimena had been taught several of the languages of France, including Occitan, Frankish and Norman French, giving Hereward a perfect excuse to talk to the beautiful young woman.

‘Was your wife very beautiful, Hereward of Bourne?’

‘Yes, she was, Dona Jimena. I miss her very much.’

‘I am sorry you have lost her. It must be very difficult for you.’

‘Thank you, I am fortunate to have a large family to take care of the girls. They are my greatest comfort; they are so like her.’

A conversation of polite conviviality ensued, during which Dona Jimena spoke more than most and brought warmth and dignity to the evening.

Rodrigo could not take his eyes off her.

The next morning, accompanied by Dona Jimena, Hereward’s Castilian host took him to see the pride of Oviedo, its cathedral. Built in wood above a stone crypt, it was a sight to behold. In an atmosphere heady with incense and the smoke of countless candles, choirboys sang in plainsong. Monks busied themselves, as hundreds of visitors shuffled on their knees towards the high altar.