I Am the Chosen King (28 page)

Siward lied without qualm or hesitation: “No, my Lord Archbishop, we have not. But we intend to. If those two worthy men will reach accommodation, we see no reason not to talk terms.” Turning his back, Siward knelt before the King, retrieved another loose page and reverently handed it to him.

It is a wise man who decides that peace is the better path than a futile war. It is a wise king who makes the right decision for the needs of his people and his country. Godwine is a bull-headed, bluff-mannered bag of self-blown wind but, unlike some who have risen to advancement while he has been gone, he also possesses integrity, honour and knowledge. Cnut had good reason to make him Earl of Wessex. Those same reasons remain.”

Siward and Leofric stared with calm certainty at the man who had, through his own efforts, been exalted into the highest office of the English Church. Much though both earls disliked Godwine, they despised these Norman interlopers more, especially Robert Champart, former Abbot of Jumièges.

He stood, looking down at the King, disgust rippling his nose and mouth. After all he had done for this snivelling little man. “And you, Edward?” Robert asked. “You agree with these imbeciles? Accept Godwine and you must accept his daughter. You will be forced to have Edith back as wife.”

Edward remained kneeling, the book, spoilt and ruined, on his lap. No, he did not want Godwine or Edith, but nor did he want Ælfgar’s daughter. What he did want was his solitude and privacy. And what was the saying? Better the known tricks of a devil, than the cunning of a fallen angel? Tenderly, he set the torn pages into their placings. Perhaps the book could be rebound by one who knew his craft well.

Robert left without further word. Within his own chambers he collected items of value, sent servants scuttling to pack what he needed. He had no choice but to flee England and go to Normandy, where Duke William would, he hoped, help him avenge this intolerable offence to his dignity.

Calling for his horse and guard to assemble in the courtyard, Robert ordered a further precaution to ensure his safety. He would take with him the hostages that Edward had demanded of Godwine, the two boys Wulfnoth and Hakon, as security in case these English tried to stop him leaving.

Waltham Abbey

Dawn had meandered over the horizon, cascading dew over the grass and overnight-spun cobwebs with a sparkle of fairy diamonds. Edyth stood at the edge of the manor courtyard, where the ground dropped away down towards the valley. In the pasture immediately below the cattle were grazing, their udders soft and empty after milking. She could hear young Stanwine whistling in the cow byre as he washed and swept away the detritus, and Mildred’s high-pitched scolding. No doubt the children were under her feet again, but youngsters always did love the butter churn.

What ought she do today? There was employment to fill a day three times over, but she had no enthusiasm for chores. The remaining blackberries needed picking before Michaelmas, there would be this morning’s crop of mushrooms to be threaded on string and hung for drying, the apples from the orchard to be stored in bran, the rose-hips to be boiled down and set in pottery crocks—and apart from the seasonal preserving, there was always wool to card and spin. She had started making a new gown, but had no inclination to finish the thing. What would be the point without Harold here to admire it?

There had been wild-running rumours since summer, tales of Harold and his father landing at various sites around the entire coast of England, from Northumbria down to the Isle of Wight. She knew of the success at Porlock from a letter penned by Harold himself—one of only three that he had managed to write since first he was exiled, or at least, that had been delivered into her hand. The rumours that their fleet had been heading towards Sandwich and from there to London were plausible, but where was Harold now? Had he indeed reached London? If he had, what had happened? Surely, oh surely, Edward must meet his senses and return their earldoms! Edyth shut her eyes to squeeze back the unexpected tears. For how much longer could she endure this separation?

If only she could open her eyes and see horses riding up the track, Harold’s housecarls, his banner—Harold himself…a horse whinnied loud and clear against the early-morning mist. She jumped with astonishment, half convinced she had conjured the sound. It came again and she stood, straight, tense, hoping, hoping…but it was only Whiteface calling for her stable companion, protesting at being separated from her friend. Guthram could not ride both of them down into the village.

She would saddle her mare and ride to her mother’s, take the two elder children with her on their ponies. Their grandmother would be delighted to see them, for she was so lonely since her father had died in the cold of last winter. At least Edyth knew she would, some day, see Harold again. For her mother there would never be another soft word or tender touch from her husband.

On the other hand her mother did not suffer this daily ritual of agonised hope and stomach-churning worry.

***

By mid-afternoon the sweetness of the morning had disappeared into drizzle. Edyth, enjoying her visit to her childhood home, postponed returning to her own manor. She would leave before evening set in, but the children were invited to remain. Without them, she and her escort could travel faster. By the sixth hour, with the rain persisting and the clouds louring heavier, Edyth was tempted to stay the night herself, but on the morrow she really ought to oversee the fruit preserving. Those silly serving girls were inclined to chatter and giggle more than work when their mistress was not within earshot.

A mile along the muddied lane, Edyth’s mare missed her footing and fell heavily on to her shoulder. Edyth, with a cry of surprise, was flung clear unharmed, but the rain had plastered the track, and her cloak and gown were sodden. Laughing to mask the shock of the unexpected tumble, Edyth scrambled to her feet as the first of the men reached her, anxious with concern. Assuring him that she had taken no hurt worse than bruised dignity, Edyth walked with him to inspect the mare. She too was mud-splashed, the fetlock of her near foreleg already swelling.

“A few weeks’ rest for you, my lass, I think.” Edyth said, patting the mare’s neck. “We’ll put a poultice of fresh dung and bran around it when we reach home, to bring out the heat.”

One of the men was bringing his own horse forward for his lady to mount and continue homeward, but the animal stopped rock still, head up, listening. Horses were approaching, the thud of cantering hooves and the jingle of harness echoing beneath the rain-drip of the trees. A male voice called out—a voice which surely, surely, Edyth recognised…She stood motionless, quivering, as if she were a deer scenting danger on the wind, her hands poised on the reins, one foot lifted to be boosted into the saddle…and then she was running, heedless of the mud and the rain. Running, her fingers grasping her riding skirt, lifting it high above her stocking garters to run the faster.

Harold! Oh, Harold was here! Blessed Virgin, sweet Jesu! He had come home!

Wilton

Yesterday had been Edith’s birthing day. No one of her family were there to celebrate with her, only the Abbess and the nuns of Wilton. Not that they were unwelcome, but she had not chosen their company. She was three and twenty, and had nothing to look forward to. Nothing save the loneliness of a discarded, unfairly discredited wife stretching ahead.

Talk about her father’s and brother’s raiding had lifted her spirits briefly, but since early September word from the lips of traders and pilgrims had dried silent. Dismally, she assumed their attempts had failed, for surely she would have heard something more by now?

She dipped her quill in the ink mixed from soot and honey and attempted to write more of her pleading letter to Edward. She had completed three sentences—oh, what was the use of writing again? Angry, she threw the goose-feather quill to the floor, the delicate shaft snapping as it hit the stone paving, and ripped the parchment to shreds. Wilton was a comfortable nunnery, she occupied the best guest room—but Edith wanted her palace at Westminster, her luxurious bed-chamber with its ante-rooms, the network of corridors, the rooms of state, the library with its musty smell of mystery and knowledge. The bustling kitchens where servants bickered and fussed to prepare royal feasts or a private tray of tempting dainties on those days when she had preferred her own company…the overflowing stores, the stables with the best-bred horses, the kennels with the wisest hounds—the fastest hawks, the fattest cattle…the list was endless. Oh! Edith wanted her crown back!

Why had her father and brothers been so stupid? Why had they not conceded defeat and bowed before Edward’s will last summer? All this misery for the sake of that poxed town of Dover. A matter of principle, her father had said. The King had challenged his authority and credibility—his honour. Honour, bah!

Edith stalked around the room, fingering candle holders, picking up her Bible, setting it down; kicking the crumpled ball of parchment under the bed. Had her father and brothers considered her position when they had refused to meet Edward on his terms last year? No. Had they realised how dangerous their addle-brained rebellion would be for her personally, as the King’s wife? Again, no.

No doubt her father had not thought Edward capable of setting her aside—but he had reckoned without the influence of that weasel Robert Champart? Archbishop? Huh! Bishop to the devil!

It had been he who had fabricated those vile lies against her, of course—how much gold had he paid into the purse-pouches of those men? They said she had taken a lover to her bed. Adultery? She was as virgin pure at the age of twenty-three as she had been at three—and she had told them so, those fusty, grey-haired old men Siward and Leofric, and the rest of Edward’s Council.

“My maidenhood is intact!” she had screamed at them as they dragged her from the Council chamber at Westminster the day after Saint Stephen’s day. “Let any physician examine me for the proof of it!”

She closed her eyes, swallowed tears. Never would she forget the fear and the humiliation of that dreadful, snow-grey day of winter!

Before the entire Council Champart had accused her, bringing in his vile minions to give testimony against her. She had laughed, denied it, stood before Edward and told them all how she could prove Champart was a liar, that this was a plot to be rid of her. Edward had sat with his head bowed, had said nothing as she told that his declaration of chastity was a falsehood, that he had no manhood in his loins.

Had they believed her? Probably, possibly, yet still she had been taken away, shut into a litter and removed from court to Wherwell Abbey, an austere and frigid nunnery where no one spoke or laughed, where the pleasure of reading or singing was forbidden. At least at Easter she had been brought from there, was now confined here at Wilton, where she had spent so many happier years as a child.

Confined. She had every comfort, every want or whim was granted, except for the ability to walk or ride through the gateway if she so chose.

Her letter was to have been another attempt to convince Edward her innocence. She had sent many similar entreaties; all had been returned, their seals unbroken.

Instead of writing, she would read. Taking a bundle of scrolled parchments from a wooden casket, she cast herself, stomach down, atop the bed and unrolled. Queen Emma’s last communication, sent on the day it was written and dated the first day of March. It was not her own hand, for her health had been failing—she had died, having made her peace with God, in the late hours five days later. Edith read slowly, studying the words that she had read so many times over. Emma had been blunt and precise, her dictated sentences reading more as a list.

Do nothing to give ground for reproof.

Insist on your innocence with persistence, but with dignity. That which is repeated often is eventually believed.

The weakness of your enemy can be turned to your strength.

My dear, I have done all I can for you. You hold your future in your own hand. My blessings. May God and His Lady be with you, always.

That had been all. No farewell or intimation that Edith’s future was soon to look brighter—perhaps then, when the letter had been written, Emma had not known that Edward’s conscience was pricking him. One week after Emma had been laid to rest within Winchester Cathedral, Edith had been escorted from Wherwell to Wilton. Why, she had not been told, except she was certain that Emma had had some hand in it.

A novice tapped warily at the door: Edith’s blustering tempers were notorious. “Madam?” The girl’s timid voice quavered. “The Abbess begs you attend her. There is a man to see you.”

Edith rolled from the bed, abandoning her letters. “A man? Which man? Is he from the King?”

The girl shook her head. “I do not know him, Lady, but he is noble born.”

Tempted to tell the girl to convey her refusal, Edith decided against the idea. What else had she to do with the rest of this dull-dreary day? If Champart had persuaded the Pope to annul her marriage and grant Edward a divorce, did it matter whether she heard now or later? What did anything matter? In her more rational moments Edith knew much of her melancholy was unnecessary, for she was welcomed and treated with respect and sympathy at Wilton. Whether the Abbess would stop her if she attempted to leave, Edith had not tried to find out, for she was fond of her and did not wish to compromise her. Besides, she had no wish to be returned to the dour oppression of Wherwell.

Fetching up her cloak, Edith followed the girl from the guest quarters to the private rooms of the Abbess.

Horses of quality snorted in the courtyard, the breath and steam from their coats showing that they had been ridden hard. News of some urgency, then? Edith gave the men holding the bridles a cursory glance as she swept up the steps into the Abbess’s domain. There was nothing on saddlecloth or shield to identify them. Edward himself had not come, then, nor Champart.

She paused before entering and smoothed her gown. Gathering her breath and schooling her features blank, as Emma had taught her, she stepped, back straight, head high, into the room, A tall, fair-haired man sat with his back to the door, a goblet of wine in his hand. He rose as she entered, turned, and all Edith’s pretence of calm vanished.

Tostig, In the flesh, in the being! Tostig! His face was full-fleshed, his eyes sparkled, his moustache and hair had recently been trimmed. Fur edged his cloak, his tunic of the finest spun wool was edged in gold brocade . , , here did not stand a man condemned as an outlaw.

“Well?” he said, resting his fist on the sword pommel slung across his left hip. “Have you no sisterly greeting for me? It is all over. The King agreed terms with our father over a week since, on the fifteenth day of September.” He grinned, showing white, even teeth. “We are reinstated.”

Edith remained motionless, her expression impassive, Tostig’s words reeling in her brain. “And why then, may I ask,” she finally responded with hauteur, “has it taken you so damned long to fetch me from here?”