Crusade

He greeted Robert like a prodigal son, overjoyed that such a prominent Norman would anoint his new project. A man of at least forty years of age, Thomas would of course never see his homage to God completed, but it mattered little to him; it would be his legacy to future generations and his gift to God. Those were the only things that were important. This was the power of the Normans — their desire to create a lasting legacy based on their immense martial prowess and their unshakeable faith in themselves and in God.

As we watched the masons and churchwrights busy themselves in preparation for laying the foundation stone, I tried to explain to Adela and Sweyn why I respected our Norman conquerors.

‘Look at them — like ants, relentless. It’s little wonder that Normans are sought after everywhere as soldiers and builders.’

Adela seized on my analogy.

‘More like pigs, to my mind — and it is our trough they’re feeding from. This church will be built with the sweat of thousands of English peasants, and thousands more will be made to pay unfair tithes to support it.’

‘I concede that it will not be built without sacrifice, but I wager that when the common people of Northumbria see their church rise to the heavens, they will be proud of it and claim it as their own.’

Sweyn added his own voice to Adela’s argument.

‘But they won’t have a choice.’

‘I agree, and that is to be regretted. But one day people will have choices — even the lowliest villein. I am committed to that.’

‘Indeed, sire, we know you are. That is why Adela and I have sworn our allegiance to you and Edwin.’

‘I am delighted that you have. This is only the beginning of a long road together; let us hope our path is not too arduous and that at the end of it we will feel that the journey has been worth it.’

When it came to the time for the ceremony, Thomas of Bayeux blessed the huge cornerstone as it hung over its position in the south-east corner of what would be the nave of the new church. The remains of the old Saxon minster had been cleared away and a deep trench for the footings of the new nave had been dug. The trench seemed to go on for ever, suggesting a building of huge proportions. The cornerstone was a cube, half the height and width of a man, and had to be lowered into position by block and tackle and a team of oxen. Before it was set down, Robert placed a pouch of silver and a small crucifix in the trench beneath the stone. When it was in place, the masons backfilled the trench with rubble and the first of the thousands of pieces of finely dressed limestone that would be fashioned into the new church was laid.

Robert turned to us and smiled.

‘The silver is from my own mint in Rouen; the coins have my head on them. When they were clearing the site, they found coins minted with the head of Alfred the Great. I had them melted down; I think my image will last a lot longer.’

We all smiled at Robert. He was not being arrogant; he meant what he said. Such was the bravado of the Normans, he knew that the churches his countrymen were building would be substantial enough to stand much longer than those of the Saxons.

York also brought the final additions to our army. The contingents from William’s northern magnates joined us there, giving us a formidable force over 5,000 strong. As usual it was a highly disciplined, well-provisioned professional army capable of putting the fear of God into its enemies and able to deliver a mighty blow should the intimidation not work.

Like his father, Robert had created four conroi of elite cavalry, 100 horsemen in total, as his own hearthtroop. I had the honour of commanding the second of those, composed largely of men from my own retinue. It was named the Cerdician Conroi in honour of my royal lineage — a great irony, under the circumstances, but only one of many anomalies, oddities and absurdities in England in those early days of Norman rule.

Edwin continued to be my standard-bearer, and Sweyn and Adela rode behind me as page knights-in-waiting.

As soon as we left York, I unfurled my war banner and the Wyvern of Wessex flew over English soil once more, another incongruity in bewildering times. Robert did not mind in the slightest. In fact, he said he was proud to have King Harold’s famous ensign in his ranks.

We reached Durham in the second week of September. It was a bleak and desolate place. The iron fist of the Normans did not rule as firmly that far north, and in the spring there had been a gruesome massacre.

Walchere of Liege, both Bishop of Durham and Earl of Northumbria, had become yet another victim of the lawlessness of the far reaches of England’s northern wilderness. Many of the Northumbrian nobles and thegns had found refuge in Scotland or escaped to the high fells during William’s onslaught of the winter of 1069. Now they were returning to their estates and villages and attempting to rebuild them. It did not take long for tensions to surface with the new Norman rulers.