The Tax Gatherer (Part Two)

So they took the initiative. They began to meet the remaining nobles, to gather information, to plot, to build numbers and supplies, arrange rendezvous’ and highlight places of importance. Time passed, and the time for them to move was growing closer.
It was as their plans were being finalised that the invitation had arrived.
‘Edward, enthroned king of the English, anointed by God himself and the Holy Trinity to carry out his work, and defend the heavenly name of Christ, hereby invites the house of Bamburgh to partake in the Christmas feast and festivities annually held by his most gracious majesty, for the benefit of his subjects, at his humble hall, in thanks and remembrance to the ruler of Heaven, and the celebration of his birth.’
Osulf immediately sensed something was wrong. When asked to witness charters by the King, he and his uncle were omitted from the official records, as if they never were. The reason being Edward merely demonstrated his power over the north. They had never however, been asked to attend his Christmas feast. To do so would imply that the house of Bamburgh was in the King’s favour, yet they had partaken in no such action to warrant such favour.
The question remained then, what did Edward want from them?
And what would be his price?

It was decided. As the eldest member Osulf’s uncle would represent the family and go south. Osulf would stay, await his return and continue to rally support for their cause. Tostig’s deputy was one of their chief obstacles in this instance, Copsig he was called, and his spy network was surprisingly developed. He had fingers in many pies, and most of the disappearances led back to him, and ultimately to his master. It was on this journey south that his uncle gifted Osulf with Ceolwærc. He’d accompanied the seax with his parting words, ‘Make sure no one stabs you in the back with one.’

The news of his murder reached Bamburgh a few weeks later.

In the King’s court, at Tostig’s bidding he had been put to death. Osulf mourned his loss greatly. His uncle had been such a commanding figure throughout his life, and the news of his death left him hollow. He suppressed the grief though, and it waited like a worm inside of him, gnawing its way through his mind and waiting to erupt in the future. Morcar, son of ᴁlfgar of Mercia, was contacted, told he could be earl of Northumbria, that when it came the rebellion would champion him as Tostig’s successor, on the condition that once in power he restored Osulf to his ancestral powers.
It was agreed.
The rebels moved quickly and little blood was split. Tostig fled, his brother Harold negotiated, and Tostig was banished. It was done.
But then the Bastard came.

After Harold’s death the grief for his family, which had been building for over a year, overwhelmed Osulf. He had respected Harold, supported him, and his loss was a crushing blow to England. All of Osulf’s fears and sorrows assaulted him, his mind, his body, his senses. Before dawn, he wept.

In his mourning state no wonder Copsig had surprised him. Siding with and appointed by the bastard, he continued to oppress the North, to make them suffer. Suffer for an unkown crime, out of an unexplainable hatred. He had driven Osulf to the hills and to the forests, a hunted man. Then Osulf had known hunger. He became intimate with desperation, and the burning whispers of revenge flitted into his ears each night, burned in his heart each day, and drove him forward.

It had not been hard to gather troops. The Northumbrians hated Copsig as much as they hated the Bastard. He was his symbol in the North, his eyes, ears and fist; even members of Copsig’s retinue defected for his treachery, his support for the Norman.
Numbers grew, and so too did Osulf’s skirmishes. Both and his men lived in the forests and ambushed Copsig’s men. They’d kill all but one, sparing one from each group they slaughtered but not his hands, so he could return like a beaten dog and tell his master that Osulf of Bamburgh was alive, and he was coming for his head. The maimed man would forever be a symbol of his mercy.

Osulf’s men grew more confident by the day. They still slept under the stars with the animals, they still woke up with dew on their cloaks and their clothing sodden and muddy, their bellies rumbling, their bones aching with cold, and they knew only the life of the hunted; but the time had come for them to attack the predator, and blind the Bastard’s northern face. After a month of living like a bandit in his own ancestral lands, Osulf was ready to confront the tax-gatherer.