I Am the Chosen King (10 page)

When first she had met him, Edyth had been in awe of this bull-chested man, but had seen that beneath the ruthlessness of his public image he cherished his family. Edyth was a little frightened of his status, but liked him very much as a man. As her father-in-law, she had no hesitation in returning his embrace.

Two people remained within the shadows of the doorway, ambivalently watching the joyous reunion. “All this fuss!” Tostig snorted, folding his arms across his chest. “Our brother Harold is returned and the entire household behaves as if it is the Second Coming!”

“But he has been ill. Mother would not have ridden all that way up into Essex had he not been close to death.” Edith, shocked at her brother’s near blasphemy, was torn between the two loyalties for brother against brother.

“He looks to be in good enough health now,” Tostig answered, acid contempt in his voice.

“You are just jealous because he is receiving all the attention.” Edith pushed her arm through her favourite brother’s, gave it a squeeze. “You’ll be happy once you have an earldom settled upon you. Once I am wed, I shall see to it that Edward rewards you with some position of great authority. Perhaps something even higher than Harold? Would that please you?”

Tostig frowned. Even Emma, after her years of authority, had not managed half of what Edith was envisioning she would achieve once she was queen. And then he noticed Edyth.

“Well, well! He has brought the Nazeing whore called Edyth of the Swan’s Neck with him! Swegn said our brother had eyes bulging in his breeches for her.”

Edith looked, her expression hardening. She walked forward, her head high, her gown of expensive silk rustling as she moved. Tostig was not being fair. Harold ought to be welcomed with open hearts back into his proper place. A backwater steading somewhere along the Lea valley was all very well for a quiet convalescence, and temporary liaisons, but he was, after all, Earl of East Anglia and would soon be brother-in-law to the King of England. Strumpets might be acceptable to pass the time in the country, but Edward would most certainly not admit a common-born whore into his court.

Tostig watched, amused, as his sister swept down the steps to embrace Harold ostentatiously. He? Jealous of Harold? If Edith’s performance down in that courtyard was not prompted by jealousy then he was the king of England! He snorted through his nostrils and stalked off towards the stables.

“Harold!” Arms outstretched, Edith joyfully launched herself at her brother. “I was so worried, so afraid that you would die—that you would not be well enough to attend my wedding! Have you heard of my marriage? I am sure you were told. I am to be Queen—think of that! You and Swegn boasting at becoming earls—and now I am to outshine you all, am I not? Papa included!” She tossed a coy look at her father, who guffawed, amused at her absurdity.

Linking her arms through Harold’s, Edith drew him with her as she began to walk, chattering about her wedding plans, back towards the Hall. In mid-flow she suddenly asked, “Who is the wench, brother?” Without waiting for a reply, her high, clear voice sailed on: “I fully understand that you enjoy intimate company in your bed, but you are not thinking of presenting her at court, I trust? Edward has no liking for whores. Indeed, he respects only the Christian vows of marriage, has no patience with these archaic heathen customs.”

As brother and sister entered the shadows of the Hall, any response that Harold might have made was muffled by the bustle of men and women returning to their duties, but Gytha had heard every word that her tactless daughter had spoken. From the tinge of pink on her cheeks, so had Edyth. Amiably the Countess offered to escort her to Harold’s private quarters. “He has a chamber to the rear of the Hall,” she explained. “It is modest but comfortable.” Gytha indicated a narrow path that threaded beside the imposing timbered walls of the Mead Hall. “You can reach it from a passageway from within, but this is more secluded should you wish for privacy.”

She halted before a rectangular dwelling set against the rear of the main building. Built of wattle and plaster, with sloping thatched roof and a single window with shutters open to the daylight, it seemed a house place that might be lived in by any man of moderate means. Gytha clicked the door-latch open, beckoned for Edyth to come inside. Within, the touches of comfort were undoubtedly Gytha’s thoughtfulness—no unwed man would think to place such a sunny counterpane of yellow interwoven checks upon the bed, nor bother with the sumptuous bear- and wolf-skins spread across the oak-wood floor. Bright tapestries adorned the whitewashed walls; two chests and a table with an earthenware jar filled with spring flowers and a bowl of dried fruits upon it stood against one wall.

Edyth’s eyes were drawn to the bed, curtained by swathes of saffron material. Large enough to accommodate a man and his bed-mate, it dominated the small room. She blushed as two servants entered carrying her clothes chest and personal belongings.

Countess Gytha caught her embarrassment, put her finger below Edyth’s chin and tipped her young, innocent face upwards. “I ought not admit to having a favourite son, for I should value all my boys the same, yet Harold is special to me, perhaps because he is the most like his father. If you are able to make my son happy then I am most pleased.”

She paused, wondering, not for the first time, what had happened to some of her children. Here was Harold, genial, good-natured and pleasant-mannered, a handsome man any woman would be proud to call son or husband. Her last-born sons also, Gyrth, almost into his manhood, Leofwine and Wulfnoth, boys full of mischief but with kind hearts. But Swegn, Tostig and Edith? Where had she made the mistake with those three?
Heaven help us
, she thought,
when Edith becomes the mother of a future king.

She turned back to Edyth, her smile radiant and genuine, said honestly, “I am mistress of this house, not my daughter, and I am delighted to welcome you into my family.”

Thorney Island

The King received Harold at court more effusively than even his family had. The cry of joy, the kiss to both cheeks, the embrace…all of it Harold shrewdly assessed to be false, an act. Godwine was not in favour with the King, and neither was Earl Siward of Northumbria or Leofric of Mercia. By openly displaying public favouritism or barbed sarcasm and displeasure as it suited his unpredictable whim, Edward could play one power holder off against the other.

Harold had brought his anointed king a present—bribery, some would call it—but it was always wise to keep Edward content. When he had become king, Earl Godwine had sought to curry his favour by presenting a sixty-oared, single-masted warship, complete with gilded prow, the best tackle and carrying eighty fully armed soldiers. Harold could not match that extravagance, but he had a gift of a similar nature to offer.

“Sire, your welcome is more than kind. I have greatly missed the pleasures of court and I praise God that I am now able to attend you.” His words were in French, since Edward had recently, for reasons of his own, ordered that language to be spoken at court. It was the tongue of culture and achievement, Edward proclaimed. He was as capable of speaking and reading English as he was of using Latin, Greek or Danish, but whether he was missing his past in Normandy, or merely deliberately provoking his short-tempered earls, no one had yet decided. Leofric and Siward could understand few of the foreign words and could certainly not pronounce them. Another prod to deepen the rivalries of these powerful men. The Godwines, father, brothers and daughter, were fluent in many languages.

Modestly accepting a further embrace from Edward, Harold continued his rehearsed greeting. “I have a gift for you, my Lord. It has not yet arrived but before Easter Monday comes there will be a modest craft awaiting you at Queenshythe Wharf. Bonny, sleek-built and swift of sail, she is being ferried down the Lea at this moment and will, I trust, be suitable for the boys’ boat race on that day. I would wager a gold purse that she can win that race, should you have a suggestion for someone to captain her.”

The young man standing a single pace behind Edward widened his speedwell-blue eyes, almost hopping from foot to foot with sudden excitement. Turned fifteen, tall and fair of face, Ralf of Mantes was the son of Edward’s sister. He looked from Harold to his uncle, like an overweight dog begging for a tit-bit. “Uncle,” he asked tentatively, “I would be honoured to captain her for you.”

Edward stroked his blond beard. “I have not yet seen this gift, my lad, yet already you ask to take it from me?” He shook his head slowly. “What if she is not all Harold says? The Godwine family are notorious for their exaggeration.”

Neither Harold nor his father uttered a word. No reaction to the deliberate insult suggesting they were inveterate liars flickered on their faces. Harold merely firmed his lips slightly tighter; Godwine stored it away in his mind with the host of other collected ridicules and aspersions. One day, he just might be pushed into opening the lid to that store-box…

Edward continued talking to Ralf aware the jibe had wounded Godwine, satisfied that the man could not retaliate. A pity the mud should also spatter Harold on this occasion, but every opportunity to keep these precocious earls in check had to be made use of. “The race can be a dangerous affair. Ought I allow my beloved nephew to take such risks?”

Ralf chewed his lip. Edward looked at Harold, who stood, dressed in his finest apparel, his face schooled to detached stillness. Edward enjoyed his games of cat and mouse, but no one at court could be complacent about when or how the cat would pounce.

“You cannot captain her, uncle,” Ralf persisted. “I know you prefer to cheer the competitors rather than sail yourself—you told me so, not many days past!” Wisely, he did not add that besides, Edward was too old to enter the Easter river tourney, which was for the boys of London, not the old men.

“Youngsters today, eh, Harold? It is all want, want, want, and take, take, take.” Edward slapped his earl of East Anglia on the shoulder, becoming jovial again, the batting claws temporarily sheathed. “In my day we accepted what we were given and lived with it without mithering.” Politely everyone nodded agreement. “You have commissioned this fine craft for me, Harold. Could my nephew captain her, win me the race?”

Harold allowed his expression to relax into a genuine smile. He liked Ralf, despite the Norman blood in his veins. “I would say this young man would represent England with honour, sir.”

Delighted, Ralf leapt into the air, clapping his hands together. The King, Harold and Earl Godwine laughed appreciatively, yet other men scowled at this favouring of another foreigner. At least Edward, although come to manhood in Normandy, had been born in England with both father and mother committed to the English cause. Ralf’s mother had been sent abroad as the child bride to a Norman nobleman; Ralf, born and raised across the sea, had come to England three months before Edward’s coronation. He was a Norman receiving too many privileges from England and some feared that, as a kinsman of a king, he might have an eye on the throne itself.

The royal Hall was smoke-addled and stuffy despite air being drawn up through the smoke hole and the draughts riddling through and under walls and doors. Men of the Witan drifted into groups, debating the afternoon’s prospective meeting of Council. Bishops and clerics huddled together; earls, shire reeves, aldermen and merchantmen sought the opinions of their own kind. Tomorrow would see the Easter Moot of the London Guilds, held in the city of London within the imposing Alderman’s Hall. Erected in Aldermansbury Street, the place had, in the time of King Alfred, been a simple fortified Hall of timber and Roman stone, owned by a wealthy merchantman who had achieved the high and respected status of Alderman. During the settled years after Alfred, with trade flourishing and wealth growing, the merchants and tradesmen of London had begun to form themselves into guilds the better to serve their particular trade, setting agreed standards of workmanship, rates of price and pay, and authorising the number of apprentices. What better place than that same Alderman’s Hall for the London goldsmiths guild to meet? The bakers, the tanners, potters and weavers to debate the selling of wares, limit the encroachment of foreign imports or complain against the high rate of taxation? Edward intensely disliked going to the Guilds’ meeting house. In fact, setting foot inside the walls of London revolted him. It stank no more than other large cities—Winchester or York—nor was it any noisier or more crowded. No, London held too many sour memories for Edward. It was from London that his mother had yielded to that usurper’s claim. And London’s populace had not raised a single finger to protect him, his brother or their claim to the throne.

Edward, not wishing to be drawn into Guild or Council matters, took Harold to one side. “I hear you are to found a religious college at Waltham? It seems the fashion for all my earls at the moment. Siward founds a house, Leofric and his wife Countess Godgiva are to build an abbey at Coventry.”

Harold could not understand Edward’s scathing tone. It was not uncommon for wealthy men to become patrons of religious houses; if you could not earn God’s favour, then why not purchase it? To build a church was to acquire a meagre place in heaven. To build an abbey, a seat at God’s side.

“I begin to feel,” Edward continued peevishly, “that the men around me either have much explaining to do to God, or are taking the opportunity to parade their wealth and status. If that be the case, to whom? Each other? Me?”

A drink would have been welcome. To have taken a sip would have allowed Harold a moment to consider an answer. “I offer an abbey to Waltham,” he said carefully—it was all too easy to offend Edward when he was teetering on one of his petulant moods. “Because my illness was cured there, a suitable way to give thanks for God’s blessing, do you not think?”

“Indeed it is,” Edward responded forthrightly, accepting the answer. “But that rogue, Earl Leofric, cannot claim the same.”

There were two answers Harold could make. Aye, well, Leofric is a scheming, money-grabbing bastard who will buy support from whatever quarter he deems necessary. That response did not seem appropriate. Instead, Harold offered tact. “Why do you not consider building some monument to the glory of your reign? The greatest of kings ought always to leave some permanent reminder of their achievements.”

The self-satisfaction that spread rapidly over Edward’s face told Harold that he had hit the target dead centre. “A monastery at Islip in Oxfordshire, perhaps? The place of your birthing would be appropriate.”

Scratching at his beard, Edward gazed upwards at the soot-blackened arched timbers of the sharply apexed roof. A damp, cold and dismal place, this Hall, with no pomp, nothing that impressed. The kitchens were on the far side of the courtyard—food arrived chilled and greasy; the stabling was suited only for mounts the size of shaggy ponies, not the warhorses that Edward had brought with him from Normandy. The kennels were overcrowded; two bitches had not whelped this year because of it. Edward liked his hunting and if hounds were not in fine fettle then the day’s chase might as well not be bothered with.

The river fog and mists made this island so damp, of course. Now, if stone were used for building…Edward closed his eyes, saw in his mind the splendid citadels of Normandy that he had lived in as a child and young man. Duke Robert’s palace at Rouen, the castles of Alan de Bretagne, Gilbert, comte de Brionne, the Counts of Eu and Burgundy. His sister, Ralf s mother, had lived until the death of her first husband in a stone-built fortification placed upon a man-made hill at Mantes. Her present husband, the Count, Eustace de Boulogne, lived in even grander style. Edward’s eyes snapped open—and those men were nothing but counts! Here he was, a king, sovereign lord of all England, standing shivering with cold feet and numbed hands in a timber shack, a wattle-built midden heap!

“Stone!” he proclaimed. “That is the material to use. I intend to erect something magnificent.” He raised his voice so that those nearby might hear. “My council shall agree to have built, in my honour, a residence more fitting to my status. I will have a palace here on Thorney and, where the timber chapel of St. Peter’s is frequently washed by the spring floods, the ground will be cleared and drained. There I shall rebuild that insignificant church. My offering to God will be an abbey, a minster of the finest stone, with windows of glass and a tower that stretches to the sky. It will be called the West Minster, and the aldermen of the guilds, when they have need to speak with me, will assemble here.” He pointed at his feet. “Here in my new King’s Hall within the Palace of West Minster!” He gazed at those present, eyes alight, and the bishops, clerics, merchants and aldermen put their hands together in polite applause. Siward and Leofric exchanged wry glances with Godwine and Harold, then joined the vociferous congratulating of Edward for his insight and wisdom. It was something they had overlooked in the enthusiasm of their own building: Edward would not want to be left out of the glory. His petty jealousies could reverberate for months.

Harold had no further speech with Edward until the preliminary meeting of the Council was due to commence. They were proceeding along the shadow-bound corridor that linked the Hall with the more secluded council chamber. Edward, wearing his royal regalia and his gold crown, led the file of men and instructed Harold to walk beside him. “Were you aware, Harold, that Baldwin of Flanders is again complaining about trade? He wails that our export tax is over high, our import restrictions too limiting. In particular he has been bellyaching about our wool exports. Yours, actually, from East Anglia.”

Harold spread his hands, at a loss for the second time that day for a suitable answer. Baldwin of Flanders, although an occasional ally of England, was a pain in the backside when it came to complaining about the imbalances of trade.

“I have been ill, Sir, I regret that I have not kept abreast of the situation. Allow me a day or two to investigate and I shall report to you.”

Impatiently Edward flapped his hand. “I have clerics who have seen to all that boring nonsense. No, it is for a more permanent solution that I have raised this issue with you. Baldwin has a brood of daughters, a few of them nearing marriageable age. I think it time you sought a Christian-vowed marriage, my lad. Ally with Flanders. That will sort the man’s damned moaning.”

Harold froze, pale with shock. Godwine, a few paces behind, cannoned into him. Harold was not short-tempered like his elder brother, nor was he a man of forthright views as was his father. He took his obligations seriously but equally, his private life was important.

How could he answer? “Begging your pardon, my Lord King, but I have recently taken a woman as hand-fast wife. I have no wish, as yet, to pursue marriage elsewhere. I am content with Edyth.”

“But I am not.” Edward fixed Harold with a brief stare of contemptuous disapproval, then turned to face Earl Godwine. “I am not content to take in marriage the daughter of a man who allows his son to sin against the laws of our Christian Church.”

Harold caught his breath, as did other men, the muted sounds of shock tumbling loud in the quietness.

Godwine was an accomplished tactician, rarely lost for words. His quick mind was well able to deal with this new insult to his family. “By the laws of our land, my son is at liberty to take into his bed a legally acknowledged concubine. As do many men of your Council.” Pointedly, Godwine glanced around at the men following. “More than a few of those who serve you have taken a mistress as well as wife. Even men of God are not reluctant to have their beds warmed by something softer than a fire-heated brick.”

Godwine stood spear-straight, gazing without fear at Edward. “You, however, must take a Christian-blessed wife, for you must have a legitimate son. There must be no challenge to the next who may sit on the throne of England, as there has been between you and your half-sibling rivals, but Earl Harold here and Earl Siward, and Leofric and…” He paused. Many faces began to suffuse with red. “No.” With a mocking bow of acknowledgement, he allowed his hands to drop. “No more names. Some here, for all that the custom is legal, do not wish their private liaisons made public. Let us just say that these men here, including my second-born son, will not become king and so they are free to follow the old laws if they so choose.”