I Am the Chosen King (27 page)

London

By Monday, the fourteenth day of September, Godwine’s ships were anchored before London Bridge at Southwark, awaiting the tide to carry them through to where Edward’s army was massed on the northern banks of the river, awaiting them. The bridge was more than a means of crossing from one side of the river to another; it was as effective as any gateway, drawbridge or defensive bailey. Without consent from the elders and leading citizens his ships would not reach the far side; difficult enough navigating through those arched piers with the seething current slamming at the keel, without the addition of firebrands, rocks, arrows and spears hurling from above.

Godwine stood on the foredeck, called to the merchant guildsmen arrayed along the wooden rails of the towering bridge above him. Seagulls were swooping and calling, their raucous noise drowning his voice. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted louder, “Do you not fear for your established rights? Are your concerns being heard with sympathy by the King or turned aside with scorn and arrogance by his aide and confidant Robert Champart? Do you tell me that you are satisfied with the recent poor level of trade coming into London? That import taxation is not driving merchant of foreign lands to other ports, other towns?” His neck was aching from where his head was tipped backwards, his eyes watering from the glare of the sun, but he continued, for he had them almost on his side. Few up on that bridge were talking, most were leaning forward over the rails, listening intently, many beginning to nod with vigorous agreement. London remembered only too well the inadequate policies of Æthelred, and was displeased with Edward’s regime.

“The King has allowed the export tax to be lowered, that is good—but customs duty has increased for imports. Who will come to buy if he has nothing to sell? A merchant ship cannot sail without ballast, and no ship will come to take out your wool or cloth if it cannot bring olive oil, or building stone, timber or silks and spices in exchange.” He flung his arm towards the almost empty wharves of the Billing’s Gate, where chickens, fish, dairy produce, timber and cloth were assessed for tax, among the more luxurious items of precious jewels, silks and fine-crafted embroideries.

“When I was earl, a London woman could buy the privilege to sell her cheese or butter here on the wharf for two pennies per year. By how much has Edward increased that tax to swell his own purse? Half a penny, a quarter?” Balancing himself against the movement of the ship as it jostled on the swell of the incoming tide, Godwine spread his arms wide to emphasise his point. “No, in his greed he has increased it by a full one penny!” Grumbles and murmurs of agreement rippled along the bridge. That did not happen while I advised the King. Were I back at his side, it would not happen again.”

Godwine’s assurances, of course, were dosed with a liberal scattering of salt. His promises were easily made, probably as easily broken or forgotten; but then, at least he was talking to the Londoners. The King talked only to Archbishop Robert, who had interfered too high-handedly with London’s trade agreements.

A few of the men standing there, dressed in their elegant cloaks, tunics, and chains and badges of office, guessed that trade had fallen dramatically these last two months directly because of Godwine’s ships’ pirating, but who cared for the trivialities? Edward
had
increased taxation,
had
imposed unpopular new regulations. Edward and his archbishop were not liked; Godwine had always been a friend of London.

With the tide in full flood, and keeping to the southern bank of the river, Godwine advanced safely through the London defences and dropped anchor once more. The Thames, more than one quarter of a mile wide, flowed with sedate unconcern between the exiled earl and his aggrieved king.

Godwine’s strength was greater than that of the royal command, his experience and ability superior, but he did not want to fight Edward, an anointed and crowned king. To do so would be dishonourable in the eyes of God, but it was his right to defend his own honour which had already been challenged. If he had to fight he would do so. The decisions of peaceful negotiation or bloodshed would be the King’s. Godwine sent a messenger across the river, politely demanding restoration of everything of which he and his son Harold had been deprived.

Edward’s reply was succinct.

No.

Godwine’s response was prompt and professional. He swung his leading keels across the river and encircled Edward’s fleet.

***

Edward sat at a table, slowly turning the pages of a book of gospels that he had recently acquired. It was a sumptuous thing, the illuminated lettering dazzling in gold leaf, vibrant reds and blues. So beautiful a thing was it that he felt reluctant to soil the corners of the parchment with his fingers. Robert was pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back, pausing every so often to squint down into the courtyard below.

Monday evening. Edward had retired to his Westminster palace, leaving his nephew, Earl Ralf, and Odda presiding over the land forces encamped between the two army roads of Watling Street and Akeman Street. Perhaps they would be more efficient than at Sandwich when they had been forced to flee before Godwine’s armada.

“Look at this page, Robert,” Edward said with a gasp of awe. “Is it not magnificent? How wonderful that the frailties of the human eye and hand can produce such a splendid and holy work.”

The Archbishop glanced at the page, murmured a mechanical answer. Was that horses arriving in the courtyard? He moved swiftly to the window, but could see nothing. To his annoyance, Bishop Stigand had been appointed by the Council as negotiator between the King and Godwine. He had been due half of an hour since. Not that Robert expected much of use from him; Stigand had made it no secret that he favoured the exiles and it was common knowledge that he wanted the position of Archbishop for himself—he would hardly be an unbiased envoy.

Robert snorted, unable to contain himself any longer. “You ought declare Godwine for the traitor he is and order his immediate execution.” Added with vehemence, “He has pillaged and murdered, raided England for his own gain like a common pirate. Have done with him, I say, and this whole absurd situation will be settled.”

Reverently, Edward closed the book. He did not want Godwine back, but nor was he content with Robert. The man had overstepped the border of late, had become more dogmatic and dictatorial than ever had Godwine. Besides, what choice had he? He was being undermined by a master tactician. Godwine had survived the rough storms of political manoeuvring for almost four decades and his experience was showing with a vengeance. Disposing of him was not a practical solution—Edward realised that now, doubted there was anyone with the strength to slaughter Godwine, save perhaps the devil himself.

Last year, the Earls Siward and Leofric had sided with the King against Godwine, hoping, no doubt, for a rise in their own fortune. They had expected public humiliation for their opponent, a heavy fine, a reduction in status, not exile. At the time it had delighted Edward, that feeling of ultimate power: if a king could so thoroughly remove Godwine, what hope had other men of England? He had refused to reward his earls, enjoying his pinnacle of dominance and authority, rubbing their noses in their inability to defy his will.

He had learnt much about being a king these past months. It took, he now realised, great skill to balance duty against self-preservation. Loyalty and respect were not to be commanded at will. It seemed incredible, to Edward’s political naïveté, that men who had so very often been at each other’s throats should now consider uniting in common cause. It seemed Siward and Leofric were contemplating agreeing terms with Godwine—at the least, if they were not thinking of committing their fighting men to the services of a rebellious exile, neither had they responded with any haste to Edward’s orders to mobilise the fyrd when first Godwine had been sighted off the coast of Kent. It had taken them all these weeks to march south with a mere handful of men; indeed, they had still not reached London, but were lodged a full day’s march away more than twenty miles to the north.

Robert’s mind, too, was dwelling upon the Earls of Northumbria and Mercia. Edward had summoned them to court immediately, to explain their delay. Robert tapped a fingernail against his teeth, gazing out of the window. The light was fading. This failure to obey a direct royal command was worrying. Without their combined armies of the North to swell the paltry few who faced Godwine’s able fleet, Edward would have no choice but to grant a pardon to the exile. If he were to fight he could be deprived of everything, crown and throne included. It had been done before, by lesser men than Godwine. And if Edward fell, then so, too, would he.

Leofric’s son had answered the summons, of course, but then he had been given Harold’s earldom, and had no care to lose East Anglia. The promotion of that boy had proven to be a disastrous move. He was an untrustworthy incompetent, no one liked or respected him, not even his father. Robert ought to have seen that before he had been so eager to take the lad’s proffered gold. Was there nothing he could salvage? Turning his attention from the window, Robert spoke of Ælfgar.

“I have approached your Earl of East Anglia with a suggestion of alliance between the throne and himself. His daughter is a comely child, so I understand. Marriage to her would bring the security we desire.”

Edward sniffed audible contempt. So Robert had said when he had taken Edith as wife. So Duke William of Normandy had promised. Both prospects had turned as sour as cream left to curdle in the midday sun. Attempts to curb Godwine had come to naught, and that poxed duke had married his sister to some peacock count of Normandy, not a month after her husband had died in a fracas during one of those interminable sieges that William seemed obsessed with.

“The girl is nine years of age and of no use as a wife,” Edward grumbled, referring to Ælfgar’s daughter. In Edward’s opinion Robert was always arranging this or that matter of importance without consulting him or taking note of his objections. It was Robert who had insisted on Godwine’s exile, he who had suggested placing Odda and Ralf in command of the fleet at Sandwich. As Archbishop, he might know his scriptures, law and history, but he knew nothing of war. Nor had he a keen eye for dress. Edith had occasionally, when Champart had not been around, been uncommonly useful, knowing the right clothes to wear for which occasion, matching colour and fabrics. A woman’s touch, Edward supposed.

“Nine is a good young age.” Robert forced a smile. “You can mould her to your liking.”

“But Ælfgar would become my father-in-law!” Edward protested. “He is but thirty years of age and a pompous, self-opinionated pain in the arse!”

“Nevertheless, I think you ought consider the marriage. He has, after all, remained loyal to you throughout the upheavals of this past year around.”

Aye, because his greed surpasses that of even the most devious of thieves
, Edward thought, not bothering to argue further. He was tired of all this. Of Godwine, of Robert. All he wanted was peace and quiet.

Horses arriving. Robert started, caught his breath and strode to the door, bellowing orders that the arrivals were to attend the King without pause.

“Siward and Leofric are here,” he explained to Edward, pronounced relief in his voice and expression. “At last we can make use of all our resources against those who would overthrow your kingdom.” Rubbing his palms together, the Archbishop seated himself on a stool that faced the door, his pulsing heart slowing, rapid breathing easing. He had barely slept these past nights. If Godwine managed to claw his way back into power…Robert shuddered. It would be unfeasible for him to remain in England alongside that traitorous murderer.

Despite his orders, one quarter of an hour passed before the two earls entered the King’s chamber. They had taken time to remove grime from their faces and boots, to partake of wine and food. Robert sat upright, arms folded, teeth clamped. Why was it that these belligerent English defied him, over and again?

“You have brought your men?” Robert said, before Edward had chance to speak. “We need them to flank the river Fleet. Set them between the chapels of Saint Andrew and Saint Brigid, to prevent Godwine occupying the London Marsh.”

Siward made his obeisance to Edward, ignoring the Archbishop. His beard and hair were grizzled, grey-streaked as a badger’s pelt, his hands and facial skin wrinkled with age like the rugged bark of an ancient oak tree. “I speak for both myself and the Earl of Mercia, my King, We have come because we have been summoned, but we have come with the intention of listening and talking within the laws of Council. We would hear what Godwine has to say.” He turned his calm gaze to Robert and said with finality, “We have not brought our men to London, we have not come to fight, will not enter into a civil war. That may be how you Normans conduct your disagreements but we are English. It is more sensible to talk, not cut out each other’s throats or balls.”

Rage suffused red across Champart’s cheeks and forehead. The insult had stung hard and the implications were clear. “Then you too commit treason!”

“On the contrary, my lord,” Leofric said, “it is treason to seek to shed blood, not to talk of peaceful settlement.”

“And what of your son, of Ælfgar?”

“He has developed a taste for an earldom,” Leofric answered again candidly, “but he is an incompetent. I would counsel that he wait a while before being given such a privilege. If I can be assured of his being made earl in a year or two, than I am content.”

Robert’s fists clenched, the realisation slamming into his brain as if it were the blow of an axe. “By God,” he exclaimed, his skin draining pale, “you have already spoken with Godwine and Harold! Have reached agreement with them!” He thundered his disgust and disappointment by sweeping his hand over a nearby table, sending Edward’s precious book of gospels sprawling to the floor. With an exclamation of horror, Edward sank to his knees, scrabbling for the several pages that had fallen loose from the binding, tears of dismay pricking his eyes. Such a thing of beauty so wantonly damaged!