In those days there were great halls of oak, and sometimes in those halls, on special days, there’d be feasts, and everybody would come together, the whole village: thirty, forty, fifty people. We’d gorge ourselves on as many sweetmeats and honeyed pastries as we could, until we were sure our stomachs would burst, but it didn’t matter how much we ate because there’d always be plenty for everyone, whether you were the lord’s wife or a humble dairy slave. On the hearth fire a hog, newly slaughtered, would be roasting. You could hear the hiss of fat as it dripped into the flames.
And there’d be people playing harps and flutes and drums, and streamers of white and green and yellow nailed to the roof beams, and the lintel above the great doors would be hung with boughs of yew and holly. And after we’d all had our fill, the revels would spill out into the yard. Under the light of the stars, folk would link arms, folk who often didn’t see eye to eye the rest of the year round, but they’d dance with one another all the same and fall about with laughter when they got the steps wrong, and even hoary old Thorvald the priest would join in, blushing as the women pulled him into the circle. Long-held grudges would be set aside and new ties of friendship would be forged, while down by the willows a slight girl with a ribbon of green silk in her hair would share her first shy, drunken kiss.
And the mead and the ale would carry on flowing, and still more platters would be brought out to the table, heaped with freshly baked treats too hot to hold in one’s hand. And the hall would be filled with the songs of old, and the hearth fire would blaze brightly all through that long night.
There was joy in this land once, she says. There was joy and there was light.
And there will be again.
Acknowledgements
Every novel is a journey into the unknown, a pilgrimage towards a destination only vaguely envisioned and along a route never before travelled. I’d like to take the opportunity to express my gratitude to all those who have joined me on the road to offer their guidance and spur me on towards my goal.
Above all, thanks to my editors at Heron Books, Jon Watt and Stefanie Bierwerth, for their faith in my writing and for guiding The Harrowing on its path to publication. I’m particularly grateful to Jon for having glimpsed the potential in this hugely ambitious project at what then was still a relatively early point in its development, for all his insights and considered suggestions along the way, and for his dedication in helping to hone this novel and to make it the very best work of fiction that it can possibly be. Thanks also to my copy-editor, Hugh Davis, and to Kathryn Taussig and everyone on the team at Quercus, whose hard work has been instrumental in bringing this book to publication and making it a success.
I’m immensely grateful to fellow writers Beverly Stark, Liz Pile, Lyndall Henning, Kayt Lackie, Joanne Sefton and Jonathan Carr, who were all kind enough to give feedback on sections of the novel at various stages of its composition. I’m indebted to them for the time and energy they’ve devoted to reading and discussing my work over the past few years, and I consider it a tremendous privilege to be a part of such a talented and enthusiastic writing community.
My interest in the Middle Ages, and the Norman Conquest in particular, was first nurtured by my dissertation supervisor and director of studies, Professor Elisabeth van Houts, while I was reading History at Emmanuel College, Cambridge. The Harrowing is the product of more than a decade’s accumulated research into Anglo-Saxon and early Norman England, but those supervisions were crucial in broadening my appreciation for this fascinating period of British history, and without that early inspiration and encouragement, I would not be where I am today. This book is dedicated to her.
Last but by no means least, I’d like to offer my thanks as ever to my family and friends for their unfailing support throughout the writing process. Without them, this novel would not have been possible.