Martin Lake's Blog, page 21

Edgar Atheling: A Story Buried for 1000 Years

I started to write ‘The Lost King’ series of books some while ago.  In fact, to my surprise, I’ve have found a draft from as far back as December 2004.

So what made me spend so long writing about this man and his history?

It goes back way beyond 2004.  I’ve been fascinated by the Anglo Saxon period since childhood when I got a Ladybird Book about Alfred the Great.  I can picture it still.

Later on in life I read a book by Frank McLynn called ’1066: The Year of Three Battles’ and was fascinated to find out more had taken place in that troubled year than merely the Battle of Hastings.

The more I delved into it the more I realised the extent to which the Norman Invasion transformed the whole of English society in a truly catastrophic manner.

In the course of my reading one name came up repeatedly but always marginally; that of Edgar Atheling, the grand-nephew of King Edward the Confessor.  Edgar was a footnote to history and I viewed him in much the same way.  Yet Atheling is a term which meant throne-worthy and was the equivalent of the French Dauphin or British Prince of Wales.  It meant that Edgar and not Harold Godwinson had been designated by King Edward as his heir.  And certainly not William, Duke of Normandy.

When I read Steven Runciman’s ‘History of the Crusades’ I found Edgar cropping up again, but this time not as a mere cipher but as a skilful leader who was making an impact in a terrible war.

I began to research a little more and found out a strange discrepancy between different accounts of the Atheling.  It soon became clear that his tale had been virtually erased from history.

I decided to write his story in the form of a novel.

What I found most remarkable is that although Edgar spent much of his life leading the resistance to William the Conqueror and his successors he was never punished in the way that other rebels were.

I wondered why.  Was it that they feared to do him harm, that they felt guilty because he was the legitimate king, that he was very lucky or very intelligent?  In the end I have come to believe that all these factors help explain the inexplicable.

So successfully did the Normans erase mention of Edgar that there is still, a thousand years later, very little information about him.

There an article called The Last Æþeling by Betty Hale, a short biography in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, short references to him in textbooks and a few entries in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.  And not a lot more.

He is a gift for a novelist.  A person who spent the whole of his life in the eye of the storm but with only the barest facts recorded about him.  What great opportunities this offers.  It was even better when I came to realise the astonishingly eventful life he led.

I hesitated a long time whether to write the novel as a third person or first person narrative.  It soon became clear to me that Edgar’s voice which has been so long forgotten would be one well much worth listening to.

I have written two novels in the series and am part way through the third.

Click on the icons to the right to find out more.

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1066 and All That… now belongs to us! (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)

A Reprise of my Talks with Authors

August is drawing to an end and I am preparing to resume my series of talks with authors.  I’m going to do them on a monthly basis, starting on the 31 August when I’m talking with Robyn Young, the historical novelist.

Before that I thought I’d give a reprise of one question and answer from each of the conversations with the writers who have already contributed.

I’m starting today with David Gaughran and Ty Johnston.

First my talk with David Gaughran about his book ‘A Storm Hits Valparaiso.’

Martin: The struggle for South American Independence was epic and full of heroic and dashing figures such as Simon Bolivar and Bernardo O’ Higgins.  Yet you chose to write about San Martin, a private man, less well-known, who spurned fame and heroics.  What attracted you to the challenge of writing about him?

David: The original plan was to write about both San Martin and Bolivar, but, as you have pointed out, Bolivar’s story was (relatively) more familiar, and half the fun (for me) is uncovering something less well known. On top of that, the scope of the story was already spiralling out of control and I needed to make some big decision early on regarding what to focus on and what would make a coherent story. I already had seven main characters, and I felt that was about the limit in terms of what a reader could keep fresh in their minds (and that I could keep track of).

Aside from that, there was something terribly seductive about focusing on the man who walked away when power was within his grasp. What would lead someone to do that? That question powered the whole novel.

Next, my talk with Ty Johnston who interviewed me a while ago on his blog.

Martin: You tried to get your books published by the traditional publishing market for many years before going along the self-published route.  Is self-publishing something you would recommend to new authors?

Ty: I would recommend self publishing to every new author, despite the fact a stigma against self publishing still remains in some circles. I’m not suggesting self publishing need to be an end goal in and of itself, though it can be, but that even writers who want to work within the traditional publishing industry should go ahead and self publish. Why? To build an audience. To show the traditional publishing folks what you can accomplish on your own. If you have success, the traditional publishers will come calling, including agents and editors. Instead of waiting and waiting and waiting for something to happen, be proactive and move ahead.

You can read the full interviews in the archives on my blog and by clicking on the links below:

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David Gaughran on ‘A Storm Hits Valparaiso.’ (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)
An Interview with Ty Johnston (martinlakewriting.wordpress.com)

The next reprise will feature some of my talk with SJA Turney and Lynn Shepherd.

Should You Stay With Kindle Direct Publishing Select?

Should You Stay With Kindle Direct Publishing Select?.

On the Attack. #SampleSunday #amwriting

This sample from Wasteland (Book 2 of The Lost King) follows on from last week.

So we made our own plans to attack.  We decided not to go south with our whole army.  It would prove hard to provision such a large force in the cold days ahead and, besides, the Danes had built a fine stronghold which would provide my army with protection against an attack by William.

We decided instead to make good use of the arrival of Eadric the Wild.  He was a master of the small armed band and he schooled us in the selection of men who would be skilled at slipping unseen through the countryside.  He advised that we form bands of no greater than a dozen men.  They would all travel independently to a meeting point where they would gather together to attack.  Until that time they would have freedom to fight as they saw fit.

‘How many bands all told?’ asked Merleswein.

‘As many as will suit your purpose,’ said Eadric.  He paused.  ‘But I have learned to my cost that too many bands contain too many tongues.  If you wish to remain secret you must limit your numbers.’

In the end we decided on a dozen bands of a dozen men.  Despite some misgiving I left Gospatric in command of our army.  I wanted Waltheof to remain with him but he persuaded us that he would be more use in the south close to his own earldom, the home of his warriors.  It was also vital that we take Merleswein with us because of his knowledge of Lincolnshire.  He would be able to raise the men of the shire better than any one else.

‘We should leave someone trustworthy with the Danes and Gospatric,’ Athelstan said to me quietly as we walked alone by the banks of the river.

‘Don’t you trust Gospatric?’ I asked.

He pursed his lips.  ‘With you, certainly,’ he answered.  ‘On his own, probably.  But with Esbjorn?’ He shrugged his shoulders.

‘But who can I trust other than you and Merleswein?  Would that Oswald were still with us.’

‘Indeed.  But he is not.  So we must make shift to do without him.’  He tapped his lips with his finger.  ‘How about Siward Barn?  He is a man of honour.’

‘He seems it.’  I paused.  ‘But we don’t know him very well, Athelstan.  Has he really proved his loyalty?’

‘Perhaps not.’  He sighed.  ‘Then we have exhausted our candidates.’

I gazed at him.  ‘Except for you.’

Athelstan looked astonished.  ‘You wish to go south to attack the Normans without me?’

‘I don’t wish it.’  I fell silent and kicked at a tree-root which hung over the river-bank.  ‘But maybe we have no other choice.’

Athelstan stared at me in silence.  I had no wish to venture into peril without him.  My heart shuddered at the thought of it.  But I could think of none better to leave behind to keep watch upon Esbjorn and Gospatric.

I had thought that I was getting used to making difficult decisions but this one felt different.  For the first time I was consciously putting my cause before myself, as though they were two separate things.  I wondered at this.  I could not quite comprehend how I could disentangle the two.  Yet I had done so.  The cause had, of a sudden, taken on a life itself, a potency greater than me.

Athelstan must have glimpsed something of this for he took my hands in his.  His gaze combined sorrow and pride.  ‘I will do this,’ he said.  ‘But only if you take Merleswein, Godwin and Siward Barn in your company.’

‘And Waltheof?’ I asked.

Athelstan shrugged.  I chose not to ask him why he did so.

Two days later, a dozen bands of a dozen men gathered at dawn on the edge of the marshes.  As I waited with the loyal followers that Athelstan had insisted should accompany me, Eadric the Wild approached and asked to join my band.

‘I know more of this type of warfare than any of your people,’ he said.  ‘The king should have the best close by him and I am the best.’

‘I am sure he is,’ Siward Barn murmured quietly to himself while rubbing his nose thoughtfully.  ‘But this makes our band thirteen men.’

We all paused, wondering at this unlucky choice.

‘It makes a band of twelve,’ Godwin said.  ‘Edgar leads the whole of the company and is merely attached to us.  We can’t really count him.’

Everyone nodded vigorously, desperate to convince themselves of his argument.

Athelstan and Anna stood beside us as my men made their final preparations.  Each warrior took care in tightening the straps on his horse, checking weapons and supplies.

Athelstan was nervous at my going without him but had worked hard to reconcile himself to it.  Anna, on the other hand, was furious at being left behind.  She had caused a scene when I had first told her that she must stay with the army and had not spoken to me for days.  Now, however, she stepped towards me and kissed me swiftly upon the cheek.

‘Take great care, Edgar,’ she said.  She turned towards Godwin and spoke with a steely tone.  ‘And you keep good watch over my lord.  You shall answer to me if any harm comes to him.’

She turned and ran back to the tents.  I could sense my men struggling to hide their amusement at the scene.  I did not understand why.

We mounted our horses.  They too seemed weary and forlorn.  The gloom of the cold marshes seemed to make beasts as dispirited as men.

Cnut strode towards us through the drifting fog.  ‘God speed, Edgar,’ he said.

He stroked the neck of my horse.  ‘I wish I was coming with you’ he continued.  ‘I have a great desire to fight Normans and even more for the chance to fight William himself.  But I cannot prevail upon my uncle to mount an attack and I am sworn to stay with him.’

‘I understand,’ I said.

‘I hope that you have the good fortune to fight William,’ Cnut continued.  ‘But remember that there are very few of you, so be watchful.’

‘Thank you for your concern,’ I said, a smile growing on my lips despite myself.  ‘But have no fears.  We aim to raise large numbers of the men of Lincolnshire to our cause.’

‘Then I wish you every good fortune in that.’  He gave a wry smile but did not sound hopeful.

He slapped my horse upon the neck and we trotted out towards the high path which led towards Wulf’s farm.  As we picked up speed I turned in my saddle and glanced back.  Cnut was still there, watching.  He raised an arm in farewell.  I wondered what was in his heart as he watched.

*******

Wasteland is the second novel in the Lost King series and is available in e-book from most outlets.

I am writing the third in the series now.

 

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1066 and All That… now belongs to us!

When I was eleven I went to secondary school and began to study history.

English: Harold Godwinson falls at Hastings. Harold was struck in the eye with an arrow (left), slain by a mounted Norman knight (right) or both. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This started with the Battle of Hastings in 1066, swiftly followed by the medieval period.  In succeeding years we studied the rest of English history.  English, please note.  The Scots and Welsh were mere footnotes about peoples who occasionally attracted the notice of the English kings.  The Irish were mentioned not at all.

I remember asking our Headmaster, who taught us in the second year, why we started our studies at 1066 and not earlier.  ‘I’d have liked to,’ he said, ‘but there wasn’t time so we had to concentrate on the most important things.’

We were, albeit unconsciously, conforming to the rules set down by William the Conqueror.  William erased from history the fact that the Witan, the council of England, had elected two kings between Edward the Confessor and himself, Harold Godwinson and Edgar Atheling.

His successors have done even better than this.  They have obliterated the history of a whole people.

History, for them, begins with the arrival of the new masters, the Normans.  Before that were the Dark Ages and Romans and Celts and goodness knows what else.  Certainly nothing of very much interest or pride.

The only pre-conquest kings ever considered note-worthy were Alfred the Great (chiefly for burning cakes), the Danish King Canute for trying to get the waves to retreat (the opposite of what happened.)  And King Caratacus for just passing by.

And as for the people?  Well, what did they count?

Why am I writing about this?

Because the conquest of 1066 was the greatest grand larceny to have taken place in these islands.

On average the land held by ten English people before the conquest were held by one Norman or French lord thereafter.  This is an astonishing theft of the resources and wealth of the country.  Huge amounts of treasure were siphoned off from England to Normandy.  The English people endured a servitude where they were ruled by a tiny, foreign elite who spoke a different language, deployed different laws and treated them as an alien breed.  In effect they suffered centuries of apartheid.

The gulf between rich and poor, the rulers and the ruled has endured for almost a thousand years.

As well as this, generations of people were told that the Normans brought a superior culture to England and set it off on a path of glory.  Pah!

I would argue that, insidiously, this mind-set is still with us.

The recent spat where Benedict Cumberbatch is said to have complained about being disadvantaged for being too posh is one astonishing example.  The other is the angry reaction of a number of people to the opening ceremony of the Olympics.  Danny Boyle celebrated a Britain which was not the preserve of the wealthy, the privileged and the descendents of the robber barons of Norman and medieval times.  And some didn’t like it one bit.

And this is to say nothing of the fact that this country is still bedevilled by a thousand year old class system which battens on the people and continues to warp every facet of our national life.  But maybe, just maybe, Danny Boyle has opened up a Pandora’s Box which will challenge this.

Perhaps all this explains why I have written about the dark days of the Norman Conquest when robbers destroyed a society and became a new elite.

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Quote of the Day: April 21, 2012 (delong.typepad.com)

Eadric the Wild. #SampleSunday #amwriting

This extract from ‘The Lost King: Wasteland’ continues from last week

 

At that moment, one of my Housecarls approached.  ‘We have a visitor,’ he said.  ‘He demands to see you.’  There was a glint of amusement in his eyes which he tried to hide.

‘Then bring him here,’ I said, curious to know what had amused him so much.  The Housecarl beckoned to some guards.

I peered into the mist and saw a small child approach.  At least I thought it was.  As the figure got closer, however, I realised that it was a grown man of middle years.  He wore a scrawny beard and his hair was thinning.

I peered closer.  He was little bigger than an eight year old.  He folded his arms and surveyed us.  Although tiny, his frame looked tough and wiry.

‘Which of you is King Edgar?’ he asked in a startlingly deep voice.

‘I am,’ said Godwin, slowly easing his knife from the sheath.

The little man turned to Godwin and looked him up and down.  ‘I doubt it,’ he said.

He turned his gaze to me, waiting for an answer.

‘I am Edgar,’ I said.  ‘And who might you be?’

‘I am Eadric the Wild,’ said the man.  ‘Thegn of Shropshire and leader of the army of the west.’

Godwin cried with laughter and the rest of my counsellors struggled to hide their amusement.  The little man stared back with a mixture of patience and disdain.

‘Eadric the Wild?’ said Siward Barn.  ‘The terror of the marches?  The scourge of the Normans?’  He shook his head.  ‘I like your humour.  What are you; a fool, a jester?’

‘A warrior,’ said the little man.  ‘And one who does not fear a hulking great dolt like you.’

Siward laughed.  ‘Better a dolt than a doll,’ he said.

‘Stand up and say that,’ said the little man with a voice of ice.

Siward slapped his hand upon his thigh, glanced around at us and climbed to his feet.

He towered above the little man, his arms crossed and his legs wide.  He was almost twice his height.

‘Oh what a brave Goliath,’ said the stranger.  Then he kicked Siward in the shin.

Siward bent in pain.  At the same time the little man darted round his legs and turned behind him.  He crouched and then gave a great leap, landing upon Siward’s shoulders.  He grabbed the big man’s hair in his left hand, like a bareback rider grasps a horse’s mane.  Then he leaned over and stuck two fingers in each of Siward’s nostrils.  He straightened his legs and leant back, dragging the powerful head skywards.

‘Come on cart-horse,’ Eadric yelled, ‘let’s train you to be ridden.’

We howled with laughter as we watched Siward lumber round in circles, thrashing his huge arms in a vain attempt to dislodge Eadric.  He landed several heavy blows upon him but the little figure managed to keep his hold.  And he never let go of the nostrils.

‘Do you submit?’ Eadric cried.

‘Not to a dwarf,’ yelled Siward.

Eadric pulled even harder on his nostrils, causing a wail of furious pain from Siward.

‘Come on cart-horse,’ Eadric repeated.  ‘I shall break you to my will.’

At last Siward could do no more.  He slowed his movements and held out his arms.  ‘I submit,’ he gasped, ‘I submit.’

‘And you promise to be a faithful carthorse to Eadric the Wild?’ said the little man.

‘I promise, I promise.  Just give me my nose back.’

The little man let go, leapt in the air, somersaulted and landed in front of me.  My ribs ached with a laughter I had not experienced for years.

‘King Edgar,’ said the man.  ‘I come in answer to your summons and pledge myself to your service.  Together with my carthorse’

He glanced towards Siward who wiped the snot from his face, bellowed with laughter and clasped the little man around the shoulder.

‘Are you truly Eadric the Wild?’ I asked.

‘Oh I think he truly is,’ said Siward.  ‘I think he truly is.’

Eadric told us that he had been in arms for over two years, his small forces launching lightning attacks upon any Normans they could find.  He was so skilled a warrior, with such a ferocious reputation, that half a dozen garrisons were pent up behind their walls, too fearful to venture into the open.

‘But I can’t take the castles,’ he said.  ‘When I received your message about the victory in York I determined to come and see you.  I may not know how to conquer castles like you do but I can offer my experience and my strength.

‘Your summons has gone far and wide,’ he continued.  ‘You know already that in every shire bands of men live like outlaws in the forests refusing to submit.  They daren’t challenge the Normans in battle but they attack the unwary and melt back into their hiding places.’

I nodded.

‘Our great weakness,’ continued Eadric, ‘is that we are far distant from each other and don’t work in concert.  We need a leader who will gather us together and challenge William once and for all.’

‘Is this why you have come here?’ I asked.  ‘To find this leader?’

‘To see what manner of man he may be,’ Eadric answered.

I did not answer for a moment, wondering what he might think of me and of our army languishing at the side of the Danes.

‘Very welcome you are,’ I said at last.  I peered into the mist.  ‘Have you come with many men?’

‘My cousin Ealdred,’ Eadric answered, ‘and three of my warriors.  We thought any more might attract attention from the Normans.’

I nodded.  ‘You are all welcome, Eadric,’ I said.  ‘Night is near.   My guards will provide a tent for you.  Please join us when we eat at sunset.’

Eadric bowed and followed one of my men into the mist.

‘Do you think he is who he says he is?’ asked Merleswein.  ‘From what I hear, Eadric the Wild is a savage and desperate fighter.  Can such a tiny man be he?’

‘Judging from what he did to Siward Barn I would say yes,’ said Gospatric.

‘And judging from my nostrils I would agree,’ said Siward.

I stared at his nose.  The nostrils were bruised, bloody and raw.  ‘The man is strong beyond his size,’ Siward said, ‘and I felt a cold fury in him, a fury which we should not under-estimate.’

‘Let us make him welcome,’ said Athelstan.  ‘However, I do not think we should admit him to our counsels on such a short acquaintance.’

The last light of the day dwindled and we made our way to our evening meal.  The food was not as tasty as that we had eaten at the house of Wulf but there was plenty of it and greater quantities of ale.  Yet, even as we ate, I knew that it would not be easily replaced and that as the winter began to grip our supplies would get sparse.  The great folly would be to sit here and wait for hunger to weaken and unman us.

Yet as the days drew on it became ever more certain that this was exactly what Esbjorn intended to do.  Cnut, I felt, agreed that it would be better to attack but his voice was over-ruled.

So we made our own plans to attack.  .

******************

Wasteland is the second book in The Lost King series which starts with The Lost King: Resistance.  Both e-books are available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Apple, WH Smith and other outlets.

I am currently writing the third novel which will be published later this year.

 

Morning. Menton France.

I woke at 6.30 this morning.  Yesterday was the hottest day I recall here.  The weather sites say it reached 29c but it was reading 34c in the shade of our balcony.  It felt like the steel-maker had left the furnace door open.  We broiled and baked.

I like it hot but not that hot.

This morning is different.

It feels cool and fresh with a gently wind curling off of the Mediterranean like the breath of a mother singing a lullaby.

The sky is a milky blue, swirling with colour.  The moon floats high above, bent like a bow pointing where the sun will rise.

The horizon is a range of colours, the subdued tones of a water-colour artist.  To the west it is almost the grey of an English sky.  To the east, where the sun is rising, it begins to hum with red.

The cicadas sleep, their continual racket paused for a space.  The occasional gull cries by the shore, a more jocular sound than normal.  There is no threat or challenge to these calls and they are not repeated in the usual frenzy of bickering.

The more constant call is the cooing of pigeons, first one then another until it is picked up across the trees in a tremulous chorus.

Smaller birds wake, adding their trills and chirps to the burgeoning song.

Few people are about.  Three or four sit upon their balconies.  Like me they are breathing in the mild morning air, waiting for the world to awake.

I can see the glow of the sun through the opaque glass shade to my left.  Even this early its warmth reaches out to me, brushing my left temple with its power.

Some of the trees in the gardens in front of me are being painted by the sun, their uniform greenery now shown to be an illusion of the shade. There is more than green here; browns and gold and silver emerge with the light.  The hues are more exact to my eye now and more cruel.

Beyond it all the Mediterranean lies tranquil and serene.  Silver paths weave through it.  Close to the horizon the grey of the blue is beginning to lighten with the sunlight.  Near to the shore I can see the faint ripples of the waves.

The human world is waking now.  Trains clatter on the rails, some going west to the rest of France, others east towards Italy.  Traffic builds upon the roads; cars, motor-bikes and street cleaners.  And the glittering light of a hushed ambulance betokens a human tragedy, a person gripped by a heart-attack being raced to safety with deft and silent speed.

Morning.  Menton.  It’s good to be alive.

 

My mum’s favourite poem.

My mum died last October at the age of 90.  She had been suffering for eight years with dementia but even until the end much of her character remained strong and vibrant.

I wanted to read her favourite poem at her funeral but time did not allow for both the poem and my eulogy about her and what she meant to her family.

I regret not reading this poem for her so I’m putting it here instead.

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies (1871 -1940)

‘History Turns on a knife-edge.’ A review of Robyn Young’s Insurrection Trilogy 1.

This is the first of Robyn Young’s books I have read but it won’t be the last. It is historical fiction of the highest order.

I must confess to not knowing much about Robert the Bruce. This novel tells the story of a complex man caught in a maelstrom of events which shaped his life and, eventually, that of two kingdoms.

Robyn Young is a fine writer who weaves plot and character in a subtle and satisfying manner.

Bruce is forged by history and then goes on to forge it. The young Bruce is confronted with conflicts of loyalty and ambition which others may not have considered conflicts at all. The fact that he did consider them so, and the decisions he makes regarding them, stem from his own complex character. They also contribute to his development both as a man and a leader.

There is much good writing in the book. Here is one acutely observed description I can’t resist quoting. ‘The weapon was sticky with blood, the smell of it like old pennies held too long in the hand.’ Young is adept at using senses to evoke an era which was both fresher and more squalid than today.

The novel darts back and forth in time which I don’t much care for and which I don’t think adds much to plot or narrative. I liked the idea that Edward used the prophecies of Merlin as a motive for his brutal invasions of Wales and Scotland. However, I imagine that he would have used the prophecies as a cloak for his naked ambition. Except that maybe Edward knew deep down that the best way to delude others is to delude oneself first.

There are some excellent supporting characters in this novel and I look forward to reading more about them as much as about Bruce himself.

I would have loved to give this book 4.5 stars but will have to content myself with 4 stars instead.

I have quoted from Robyn Young as the title of this piece because I believe it sums up the novel so exactly.

I look forward to reading the sequel which is out in August 2012.

Wasteland. Decisions, Decisions. #SampleSunday #histfic

This extract follows on from last week’s.  Edgar leaves Esbjorn’s tent, furious that the Danish leader seems reluctant to fight against William the Conqueror.

Later that day we held a council of our own.  It was a bitter blow to realise that Esbjorn was content to stay in his fastness instead of marching south to attack William.  I could see all my dreams drifting away like the mist which wafted round us.

The heads of my counsellors were bowed towards the ground.  Only Godwin’s head did not droop and he was watching me keenly.

For the first time ever I felt that my advisers were at a loss.  We had all believed that the Danes would be like furies for attack.  Yet now they seemed content to let William seize the initiative.  I ran over various scenarios in my mind.  All seemed to end in our defeat and William’s triumph.

Advise me please, I pleaded silently to my friends.  Yet their heads remained bowed, their spirits crestfallen.

No words came.  So, finally, I spoke.

‘We must decide,’ I said.  My voice sounded dull and flat in the clammy, cloying air.  But it had an effect, for one by one my counsellors looked up and gazed upon me.

‘Can we fight and defeat the Normans with our army alone?’ I asked.

‘I think we can,’ said Waltheof.  ‘We should be able to increase our strength as we march south into Mercia.’

‘I don’t agree,’ said Merleswein.  ‘The Normans are far more experienced warriors and better equipped.  And we do not have a leader of the mettle of William.  Our only hope is to face them with a larger army.  We haven’t the time to gather together a large enough army before the winter settles in.  We will have to wait for the spring and a new Danish fleet.’

My heart chilled at these words.  ‘What do you say, Gospatric?’ I asked.

For a moment he did not answer, merely sat shaking his head as if in confusion.  He sighed and stared at the ground.

‘I think Merleswein is right,’ he said.  ‘There is too little time for us to gather a larger army.  I do not know the men of Mercia and cannot be certain they will join with us.’

‘This astounds me,’ I said, sweeping my eyes across my counsellors.  ‘For the last year you have led me to believe that I am King of the English.  Now you tell me that the kingdom is not united, that my people will not join together to fight our enemy.’

‘I say they may not,’ said Gospatric.  ‘At least not against the Normans and under an untried leader.’

‘But you expect them to fight alongside the Danes?’

Gospatric did not answer.

I looked at Athelstan last.  He pondered my question for long moments.

‘I don’t agree about the Mercians not joining with us,’ he said at last.  ‘Nor the men of Wessex.  I am convinced that they will rally to your call.’

He rose and began to pace up and down.  ‘If proof was needed of this then we have only to think of all the uprisings that are taking place throughout the land.’

‘There,’ I said.  ‘Athelstan speaks wisely.’

Then I saw his eyes grow sad and he shook his head.  ‘However, I agree that there may be too little time to gather an army large enough to take the field against William.  Every moment we tarry here he will gather his strength.  Ours will, inevitably, decline.’

‘Then why fight William?’ I said.  ‘He has still not appeared and in fact he may well be closing in on York at this moment.  Why don’t we seize the chance to make a sudden attack on some Norman army nearby?  One that is not commanded by William.’

‘There is a Norman garrison at Lincoln,’ said Merleswein.  Hope flickered in his eyes.  ‘And as I was shire reeve I should be able to raise the locals easily enough.’

Athelstan nodded thoughtfully.  ‘This may be worth considering.  It will be a thorn in William’s side and will show that he can’t ignore us.’

‘And it will encourage other Englishmen to maintain the struggle,’ said Waltheof.

I sat back and sighed in relief.  At least we would be doing something.  And we would show Esbjorn and the Danes that we were not totally reliant upon them.

At that moment, one of my Housecarls approached.  ‘We have a visitor,’ he said.  ‘He demands to see you.’  There was a glint of amusement in his eyes which he tried to hide.

‘Then bring him here,’ I said, curious to know what had amused him so much.  The Housecarl beckoned to some guards.

I peered into the mist and saw a small child approach.  At least I thought it was.  As the figure got closer, however, I realised that it was a grown man of middle years.  He wore a scrawny beard and his hair was thinning.

I peered closer.  He was little bigger than an eight year old.  He folded his arms and surveyed us.  Although tiny, his frame looked tough and wiry.

‘Which of you is King Edgar?’ he asked in a startlingly deep voice.

‘I am,’ said Godwin, slowly easing his knife from the sheath.

The little man turned to Godwin and looked him up and down.  ‘I doubt it,’ he said.

He turned his gaze to me, waiting for an answer.

*******************

Wasteland is the second book in The Lost King series which starts with The Lost King: Resistance.  Both e-books are available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Apple, WH Smith and other outlets.

I am currently writing the third novel which will be published later this year.