I Am the Chosen King (24 page)

Westminster

Freedom tasted of fine wine and sweet, briar rose honey. This is what it was to be king: to have no one, no one at all, telling you what to do.

Edward propped his feet on the footstool and exhaled a contented sigh. Godwine was gone and, with him, all those damned annoying habits. The tactful cough, the patient sigh—oh, how Godwine had grated on his nerves! And now the Earls Siward and Leofric regarded him with wary apprehension, all he need do in the future, when one of them provoked him or overstepped his authority, was to reminisce how he had, single-handedly, brought down Godwine, Earl of Wessex? They would all think more carefully before voicing opposition, would agree with enthusiasm to his plans. Aye, Edward was well content.

Robert Champart, Archbishop of Canterbury, standing with his backside warming against the red glow of the brazier, cleared his throat, politely, reminding the King that there was business to be completed. Robert found it a difficult trial maintaining patience where the King was concerned. Edward’s mind flitted from the essential to the frivolous within almost the same thought, was incapable of concentrating for any length of time on matters of government. The Archbishop had concluded that Edward had come to office too late in life, had never been taught the discipline of responsibility. That was his mother’s fault. Had she taken care to ensure her son was nurtured for kingship, had she not abandoned him to exile, Edward might have learnt to take responsibility for himself and others.

“I am not persuaded about your proposition for East Anglia, my Lord.” Champart said, his voice smooth, like silk gliding over unblemished skin. “Ælfgar, son of Leofric of Mercia, would be the better candidate for earl.”

Edward ignored the suggestion, answering instead, “I think I shall hunt on the morrow. I’d like to see how those new young hounds fare—that brindle seems a splendid bitch, don’t you think?”

“Sire. Anglia must have an earl.” Robert’s impatience showed. “Decision ought be made without further delay. Appointing Ælfgar will efficiently bind Mercia to us. If he feels his son may lose control of a prestigious earldom Leofric will not tolerate any possibility of Godwine or any of his brood returning.”

Edward’s pleasure faded. He removed his feet from the stool, slumped forward and folded his arms. Why was this new palace of Westminster as cold as the old place? Scurries of wind danced around his ankles despite the thickness of the stone walls and panes of leaded glass in the windows. Querulous: “I do not much like Ælfgar.”

“It is not a matter of liking, sir, it is a matter of appointing the most suitable man for the position. Ælfgar is, I assure you, the most suited.”

“Nonsense.” Edward hunched his shoulders and, to be awkward, added, “Harold was the best man, only he had the misfortune to be Godwine’s son. I enjoyed many a good day’s hunting with Harold. His forests of Epping and Hatfield hold especially fine deer.”

Robert sighed. “The deer will remain in the forests under Ælfgar’s prerogative, Sire. I believe he is a keen hawk-man.”

“Hawking is all very well, Robert, but it is the chase that stimulates me, the chase!” To emphasise his enthusiasm Edward mimed the motions of holding the reins, circling his hands to imitate the speed and exhilaration of a gallop across country.

“East Anglia, my Lord—”

“Oh, to hell with bloody East Anglia! Let Ælfgar have the damned place.” Edward lurched from his bench, swept his arm through the pile of neat scrolls on the nearby cleric’s table, startling a squeak from the man as the ink pot toppled, scattering quills and black mess over parchment and floor. “Why can you not leave me in peace?” His stomach grumbled, he would need to visit the garde robe soon. These discussions of formalities either gave him thundering headaches or cramped bellyache. Decision-making, pah! He detested decision-making.

***

The third hour of the afternoon and already the candles and lamps were lit. Edith rubbed at the chill in her fingers but remained stubbornly sitting within the comparative privacy of the window recess in her solar, her eyes occasionally lifting from the Bible she was attempting to read, although she had not turned a single page this past quarter of an hour, A servant came to close the shutters, but she waved him away, did not, yet, want to lose what was left of this short November day. From where she sat she could not see the river along the eastern boundary of the palace. The Thames would be as bleak and grey as the louring cloud; the wind scuttling through the reeds like the path of an unseen predator. Snow would come soon.

The child was wailing again, its red face puckered and squashed like a wrinkled, dried grape. Eustace of Boulogne’s wretched grandson. Edith detested the brat. If babes were this much of a nuisance then how glad she was that she would have none of her own! Edward adored him. He was attempting to rock him to sleep, while making crooning and clucking noises. Edith would have suggested he pass the child back to its nurse, but she dared not, for once already this dreary afternoon they had come close to quarrelling. She had merely suggested that perhaps the children ought to be removed to their own chamber. But Edward enjoyed games and merry-making with the children of the court, a variety of nieces, nephews, cousins and the like. To see a grown man playing with a toy sword, tossing a cloth ball or kneeling on the floor, marching carved wooden soldiers into battle…pressing her lips together, Edith again looked out of the window. Did he regret not having his own children, she occasionally wondered; no, Edward was nothing more than a child himself, had no sense of adult responsibility or duty; his moods and ill-judged, infantile humour were more suited to a lad in his early years of spot-faced youth.

Beyond the bailey and the height of the palisade wall Edward’s abbey was growing upwards. This eastern end reached almost to its full height. The workmen had finished for the day, the sound of hammering, sawing, creaking ropes, curses and chattering had ceased…it was always so strange when quietness descended after the torrent of noise.

The private royal apartments and the armoury were situated here in this third, inner yard: the Great Hall, king and queen’s bedchambers and ante-rooms, the chapels and the king’s grand council chamber. Also guest apartments and the royal kitchens—Edward had ordered separate kitchens built near the Hall for he was tired of meals brought across the courtyard arriving cold and greasy, although the proximity had made little difference to the service and warmth of the food. The larger, middle bailey, adjoining to the north, was reached through an archway protected by a pair of tall, iron-studded oak doors. Oak was always used, for it was not an easy wood to burn should attack come from the outside, or fire take hold within. Would anyone dare attack the King while he resided in his new palace at Westminster? Still staring out of the window, Edith wondered if her father would so dare. Unlike Edward, she was not complacent over the consequences of Godwine’s exile. Edward seemed to think he was safe, the thing settled. But Godwine would never leave it at that.

The outer, or first, courtyard, to the northern end of Thorney Island, accommodated the stabling, grain storage, bakery, brewery, dairy and forge, the barracks, kennels and the like. Westminster contained a whole town within this procession of courtyards, with their buildings strung together by walls, gates and archways, corridors and aisles. As impressive as anything he had seen in Normandy, so Edward claimed.

The baby’s cries had withered to a moaning whimper; Edward gave the child to the nurse, beaming at his success. “You see! Patience and gentleness is all a child of that age requires. Patience and gentleness.”

A no-nonsense firm hand would be more practical, Edith thought. At least the grandfather, Boulogne, had gone. Three blessed weeks now without his loud, boastful conversation and arrogant presumption. The pity that Champart and the other Normans who squirmed around Edward like piglets eager to drain the mother sow dry of her milk had not departed with him.

And now there were more coming! Next month, or so the messenger had said, Duke William himself was to make a brief visit to England to pay respect to his great-aunt and the King. Edward was delighted, not about the Duke meeting with his mother, but because he was eager to show the progress with his abbey and the splendour of this palace—to take the Duke hunting. Edith sighed, closed her Bible and indicated that the shutters could be closed. They had argued about that also, when Edith had politely suggested that perhaps the Duke would prefer to discuss important issues of alliance and trade. Edward had ordered her to keep her ignorant opinions to herself; of course the Duke would want to hunt—chancellors and clerics were there to deal with the mundane matters of state.

It had not occurred to Edward, who took no specific interest in politics, that this Duke of Normandy might be different, that he was not sailing to England during the vagaries of the winter weather merely to hunt deer or chase boar. Nor was he asking, as were his earls and Council, why, when so hard pressed by internal troubles within his duchy, the Duke should take time to visit England.

The answer was obvious to all except Edward. With Godwine gone, there was a power vacuum forming within the realm. Those of Norman blood were rising in status and William desperately sought favour, wherever he might find it, so that he could further his own ambition. He also, through Emma, had a chance to make a claim for the throne after Edward’s death. That possibility had not escaped anyone’s appraisal—save, it seemed, for Edward.

Edward was now seated beside the largest brazier, gathering the children around him. Her brother was there, Wulfnoth, innocence etched into his shining ten-year-old face. The younger children—her cousin Hakon and that wretched grandchild of Boulogne—had finally been taken from the room for their supper. At least some semblance of dignity was returning to the chamber.

“A riddle! A riddle!” they were shrieking, bouncing in excitement.

“A riddle?” Edward said. “I am not certain I know any riddles.”

“You do! Oh, you do!”

Edith walked from her window seat to another of the braziers, stood, warming her hands.

“A creature came into my courtyard,” Edward began. “It had one eye and two ears, two feet and twelve hundred heads, a back and a belly, two hands, arms and shoulders, one neck and two sides. Say, whichever one of you can, what was this creature?” He leant back, spread his hands on his thighs. They would never guess.

Edith’s father had no fear for his boys, Edward would never, willingly, harm a child, but it was not Edward who held the reins of power in England at this moment. Godwine had kept a curb on the menace of rising Norman influence, until Count Eustace had—so common gossip said—ridden deliberately into Dover to stir up trouble. The boys would be safe, but would Edith? Except to cast barbed comments, Edward rarely spoke to her, barely concealed his distaste at her presence. They were lawfully bound in marriage and he had no just cause, without perjuring his soul, to set her aside as wife. Never would she contemplate taking a lover or allowing a male companion close without adequate escort, for she would not give Edward the opportunity to create lies against her dignity and innocence.

Edward wanted her gone, though, Edith knew that as well as she knew the answer to his fool-stupid riddle.

She glanced up, caught Robert Champart watching her from across the room. From Edward, she was, perhaps, safe, but what mischief was Champart and Duke William hatching between them?

“What is the answer?” the eldest daughter of Edward’s personal silversmith asked. “I cannot think what it is!”

Edward clapped his hands. “A one-eyed onion seller!” His laughter joined with that of the children.

Pathetic and insane. Need she worry? What could Champart do to her? What could William offer or expect from England in return? Were he to have daughters who sought husbands then aye, she would be anxious. An alliance of marriage between England and Normandy…she shuddered, but the Duke was not yet married, had not solved his problem with the Pope, and his sister was safe married to Enguerrand, comte de Ponthieu.

Edith returned Champart’s gaze, would not let him see that she feared him. All she need do was ride this storm and hope, pray, that her father intended to make a great fight for honour and earldom. And that Champart could not, before that time, invent too much of a plausible lie against her to whisper into the King’s ear.

Bruges

Mathilda was aware that tears blotched the face and puffed the eyes, but she cared nothing for her looks or complexion. The uglier the better, then perhaps that hateful, uneducated man would not want her. She lay face down on her bed, arms over her head, sobbing. They would be coming soon, to take her down for her betrothal—she would not go, she would rather die than be forced into marriage with an illiterate bastard-born monster. Her mother had berated her foolishness, a variety of aunts and cousins too. No one seemed to care about her fate; all they were concerned for was how bad it would look if she continued to be so wilful.

She had at least expected her sister Judith to come to her aid, but she had changed since her own marriage, cared only for Tostig Godwinesson, had treated her younger sister almost with contempt. “We all need to marry, child. Take your fate and make the best of it. You may end up as happily settled as I.” It was all right for Judith, her husband was as besotted with her as she was with him. Duke William did not care a tinker’s dented begging bowl for his prospective bride.

He had arrived yester-eve, coming by sea direct from England where he had spent ten days with the king, Edward. Dishevelled, smelling of sweat and shipboard tar, he had not bathed or changed before demanding that she be brought to him for inspection—as if she were a horse or hawk that he had purchased unseen from a travelling merchant. The introductions had been frosty and reserved. He had not been over-pleased by her appearance—well, neither was she taken with him. She would never forget, or forgive, those first words that he had exclaimed as she had come down into her father’s Hall.

“Is it likely that she will grow any taller? Or am I to wed a stunted shrub?”

Mathilda was dwarfed by his own comparative tallness. William of Normandy stood, stocky and broad-shouldered, at five feet and ten inches; she, slight and more than one whole foot shorter, had answered him with pert anger. “The smallest bush, sir, can bear the most perfect blooms.”

“Then you had better bear a brood of strong sons and prove your worth to me, girl.” With that the Duke had turned away from her to talk with his friend, another odious man who had resided at Flanders this past month, Eustace de Boulogne.

Mathilda tugged the pillow from beneath her head and hurled it across the room. She would not marry him. Was there no one else to lay claim to her—Swegn Godwinesson was here with his father and brothers, why could he not plead for her? Or the absent brothers who were in Ireland, Harold or Leofwine? Harold had no official wife, would it not grant the family higher strength by taking another of Baldwin’s daughters? Yet perhaps that was being foolish. The Godwines, while not poverty-stricken, were in disgraced exile. Their vehemently proclaimed intention to regain everything the English king had unjustly taken might be nothing more than pride-injured boasting.

The situation was hopeless. Mathilda leapt from the bed and ran to a small side table, snatched up the fruit knife, short bladed but adequate to open a vein…she laid its edge over her wrist, steeling herself to slash the thing downward…gasped as the door was unexpectedly flung inwards with no warning. He stood there, alone, silhouetted against the smoking torches that illuminated the narrow corridor outside: William, Duke of Normandy.

“I am told that you refuse to come to your wedding.”

Her throat ran dry and her hands shook. He had attended to his appearance, his hair shorn up the back of his head in the Norman manner, his chin clean-shaven. Had bathed, changed into clean and elegant robes. Was so much taller and more dominating now he was well groomed. Somewhat frightening, but alluring.

Mathilda found the courage to stand square before him, her head tilting upwards to meet his narrow stare. “I do not wish to wed you,” she said with bold impertinence, although a high-pitched squeak entered into her voice halfway through the sentence. “I do not like you.”

“I do not like you, but that makes no difference to me.” William entered the small chamber, taking in its comfortable furnishings and the clutter of feminine trinkets with one hasty sweep of his assessing gaze. “You are insulting me with this childish behaviour. Were you a man, you would learn that I do not take insults lightly.”

“Were I a man, I would have cut you down for the insult you offered me!”

William laughed at her audacity. Despite what he had said, he liked this girl, she showed courage and determination, qualities he admired. She was also, as they had promised, fair of face. A pity they had not told him of her limitations of stature, but of what consequence was small height? As long as she was capable of breeding him a son or two…He was not a man who was used to being defied, however. Once his mind was made up to something he would have it and he had decided to forge an alliance with Baldwin of Flanders, have Mathilda as his wife. Whether it was her wish or not, and whether the Pope gave or withheld his blessing.

“You will complete your dressing and accompany me to swear our wedding vows.” William picked up the wimple that Mathilda had flung there and tossed it at her. “Dress yourself and come.”

Mathilda stamped her foot. How dare this man enter her room when there was no chaperone or servant present? And then order her to do his bidding? “Get out of my chamber!” The fruit knife was in her hand; she raised it and awkwardly lunged for William’s stomach. He merely side-stepped and, chopping with his hand, sent the little blade spinning across the room. She fell forward, wincing at the pain in her bruised wrist—and he was bending over her, pulling her to her feet, shaking her as if she were a rat caught by a dog. She tried to strike out, screaming defiance and a simultaneous plea for help. Dodging her flailing legs, he set his arm around her waist and hoisted her across his shoulder.

“I take it then, madam, that you are content to be wed as you are dressed. So be it. I care nothing for fripperies and niceties. I am here to take you as wife because I require an alliance with your father. And as I have stated, no one defies my will.”

He marched from the room, descending the narrow stone stairwell two steps at a time. They were all there, gathered below in the Hall, ready to leave her father’s house and walk in procession across the cobbles of the courtyard to the great doors of the cathedral that stood opposite.

There was laughter and much ribaldry as William threaded his way through the crowd. Her mother fluttered nervously among her women, but Baldwin ordered her to be still. The Duke knew what he was doing and the Count of Flanders approved wholeheartedly. In truth, he would be content to be rid of his most vexing daughter.

***

William sipped his wine, his eyes roving the Hall, his ears monitoring the occasional overheard snatch of conversation. There were men here who did not care for him or his ambitions, papal supporters who would take every advantage of the interdict that would now be placed on his shoulders by Rome. Who was this Pope to say what a leader, a warlord, could or could not do in order to safeguard the security of his duchy? Normandy would be the better armed under Baldwin’s friendship—would Rome send aid when that damned Geoffrey Martel, comte d’Anjou, finally discovered the strength and courage to attack? Huh, the Pope was too busy defending the wealth and influence of his own friends, Germany and the like, to bother with Normandy. One day, however, one day, the Church would take note of William.

William’s eyes rested on Godwine and his eldest son, his expression puckering with contempt. Had William found himself standing in Godwine’s expensive red leather boots, he would not have run like a whipped dog, he would have gone to war. Would now be King of England, or have died in the attempt. To be a king, to wear a crown, sit on a cushioned throne, supreme above counts and dukes, equal to other kings. He liked the idea.

He had not much cared for England, the weather had been damp and foggy much of the time, and Edward profoundly irritating with his constant grumbling that he could not hunt in adverse conditions. Nor had he met his great-aunt, the Lady Emma. She would not come from Winchester to Westminster, Edward had explained, for she was unwell. As an excuse, William thought it a poor one. He had particularly wanted to speak with her, to reestablish their family connection for his own purposes. Perhaps it had not mattered? Edward had been ingratiating, professing his debt to Normandy for the years of shelter he had enjoyed beneath her protection. And he had admitted that as he had no expectation of his wife producing an heir, William was a cousin of potential worth.

A half-smile of amusement lifted William’s mouth in memory of that particular afternoon. Fog had rolled, belligerent, across the murk of the river Thames, obscuring the far bank. Damp seeped into the walls of that idiotically sited palace—on a marsh-mired island? If the foundations did not sink, then the bordering rivers would undoubtedly flood it. And so opulent in its attempt at grandeur, useless for the purpose of defence. He would have built a castle nearer London, with high, stone outer walls, square, imposing towers to each corner, ramparts, ditch, drawbridge and iron-grilled gateway—not a feeble arch with wooden doors dividing track road from courtyard.

They had sat together before the hearth fire, sharing a jug of French wine. Somehow, William’s sister Adelaide had come into the conversation—he could not recall how.

“Her husband is ailing,” William had remarked. “He has almost reached his sixtieth year.” He had leant forward, touched his goblet against Edward’s. “Such is the frailty of our human existence. We are born, we grow, we die. Whether we can achieve all we hope within that short span of time depends on the will of God. We can but pray that our sons, and their sons, shall continue that which we began.”

Edward had glowered, had drunk of his wine, made no answer.

“I shall seek a new husband for Adelaide immediately she is widowed.” William had casually stretched his legs, pursed his lips as if in perplexity. “I shall need to find a man of integrity and honour, a man whom I can trust.”

And Edward had answered as William had so hoped he would. “Were I not married, I would wed her myself.”

During those few snatched days in England, William had studied Edward’s queen, and found her a woman of modest looks and high intelligence. Edward and Champart had made a mistake there, in assuming they could bend Godwine to their will through her. Beneath his charm and pleasant banter, Godwine was arrogant, conceited and ambitious. Not that they were qualities William despised, but he disliked men who disguised their true motives. There was nothing wrong with ambition, but it was effete to conceal it.

William had lowered his voice so none other than Edward might hear. “Your father, I believe, set aside his wife in order to secure my aunt, Emma, your mother.”

Edward had studied the last dregs of wine in the bottom of his goblet. The circumstances for that marriage were entirely different from his own and irrelevant. “Godwine would never permit it,” he mumbled, not wishing to conduct a prolonged conversation on the technical variants of English marriage customs.

“Godwine,” William had pointed out, with a laconic smile, “is in exile and could do nothing about it.”

Remembering how Edward had looked up at him, eyes alight with eagerness, William’s thoughtful self-indulgent smile increased.

Edward had hoped to be rid of Edith along with Godwine. As yet, Champart had not managed its legal doing. Did he seriously want another wife in her place? He disliked women, bossy, fussing creatures. They were all right as little girls, but girls grew up to become domineering matrons. It would drive the dagger deeper into Godwine were he to wed Adelaide of Normandy, though. He ought to have thought of it before—damn Champart, why had he not suggested it? The man was too preoccupied with his own affairs now that he was made Archbishop of Canterbury, had no care for Edward’s problems and needs.

Watching the thoughts swirl and churn over the King’s so readable face, William had dangled the bait, snared the catch and wound it in. “Normandy can help rid you of your boils.” His voice had been low and comforting, so like his father’s. “All I ask in return,” he had added, “is that, as your close kinsman, you perhaps consider me as your heir.”

Edward had shaken his head. “We do not follow the law of primogeniture here in England.” Had added bitterly, “Although you would not think it so from my earls with their poxed sons. It is for Council to appoint the king, not me.”

“Ah, but a kinsman is always considered,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Not necessarily. The most suitable man is chosen.”

William had frowned at the first part of Edward’s answer, smiled at the second. “Then it is settled! I am your cousin—perhaps soon, even your brother—and I am, without doubt, the best man. I would be honoured to be chosen as your heir.”

Later, Edward would puzzle how this young and vibrant duke had managed to proclaim himself as his heir, but did it matter? With the Godwines gone, there was a need for new alliances, for fresh blood to come into England, and Edward did owe much to Normandy, especially to the previous duke, William’s father. Robert, Edward liked. He had been kind and attentive, had even attempted to help regain the throne from Cnut—although the attempt had failed, resulting in Alfred’s death. Godwine had been responsible for that, and Emma, may God rot them both.

“I admired your father,” Edward had said to William as they had clasped hands in friendship, “loved him, he was a good man. You have his eyes, and the same firm hand.”

Jolting back to the present, William realised someone was addressing him—Godwine. Mentally he shook himself and acknowledged Godwine’s congratulations.

“She is a handsome young woman,” Godwine remarked. “I wish you good fortune and many sons.”

“A man’s fortune depends on his own determination, but for the sons I thank you. No man, if he is not to waste all he has achieved, ought be cursed with a woman who cannot provide him with the means to continue his line.”

Godwine calmly returned this arrogant young pup’s stare, eye to eye, as a group of dancers whirled past, feet stamping, heads tossing as the rhythm of drum and lute quickened the pace, their shrieks and laughter heightened by the headiness of the wine, cider and barley-ale that had poured so freely from jug and barrel throughout the afternoon. One, a Flanders man, knocked against Godwine’s arm, sending his own wine splashing over the gold-embroidered thread of his tunic sleeve. The dancer called a quick, brief apology, but Godwine, laughing, waved him on his way. The distraction had given him a few seconds to think. What was this Norman whelp hinting at? “There are some women who are cursed with a husband who cannot—for whatever reason—sow ripe seed.” Godwine said, a smile sitting easy on his lips. “Do you not breed horses, young sir? If mares do not produce foals, it is the stallion who is taken away to be gelded, not the mares slaughtered for meat.”