I Am the Chosen King (29 page)

Lycia, near Constantinople

Throughout the day the sun had thrust its spears of heat through the half-shuttered window, beating down on to the man lying on the floor, ragged, unshaven and in his own mess of vomit and excrement. His face was burning from the sun and fever, but he had been too ill to move into the shade, no more than three inches from his filthy bed. Someone, one of the few men who had remained loyal, had brought him water. It had tasted foul and he had vomited most of it straight up.

Dusk had come quickly, the noises in the street below rising as the heat went out of the day and people began to emerge from their shelter. Was this how it always was, he thought, closing his eyes against the pain that engulfed his body. At the end, when death came for you, was it always this lonely and desperate? If this was punishment for all the wrongs he had committed, then surely he would be purged of sin by the time he reached God’s kingdom.

He heard laughter from the room below, the girl’s high voice sounding clearly through the thin floorboards of this stinking room. A man’s gruff answer. He could not distinguish the words. They had tended him at first, the innkeeper and his daughter, before the money had run out. His ring, cloak pin, sword and dagger, everything of value had long gone. His horse too, probably, with the fine leather harness and silk trappings. All the magnificent gifts he had bought in Jerusalem to take back home to England. The perfume for the women, the spices, the weaponry for his father and brothers. The casket of myrrh for the King, for Edward.

Swegn had no doubt that his father had redeemed the family name and fortune. He, Swegn, had pledged, before leaving on this long trek to the Holy City, that when he returned he would be a changed man. His family had never thought that he might not return. Nor had he.

He drowsed in and out of consciousness as the stars moved lazily across the dark foreign sky. At least now it was cool, but it did not matter for it was too late; his body was already growing cold. Swegn, the eldest son of Earl Godwine of Wessex in England, while returning from pilgrimage to Jerusalem to repent of his sins, was dead.

Winchester—April 1053

As the swallow or house martin would return to a familiar nesting place, Edith had returned to court as if she had hardly been away. Her father, however, had found it harder to adjust. He had never admitted—even to himself—the anxiety that exile had caused, the loss of dignity, coming so close to losing everything he had. He was no longer an adaptable young man. His hair was grizzled, his breathing more shallow. Twice since Christmas had the pains in his chest caught him off guard, so that he had groped for a chair arm, clutched at his breast, waiting for the agony that stabbed down his left arm to subside, the red dizziness in his head to clear.

Soon after the Christmas celebration at Westminster he had returned with Gytha and his two unmarried sons to Bosham. The winter cold of January and February bringing a despair with it, that wrapped around his heart like a rope, knotting and twisting tighter with each long, dark, melancholy day.

Edward had made no apology, no attempt to repair the damage that he and his Norman friends had caused. Had not sent after Champart to demand the return of Godwine’s son and grandson. They were with William at Rouen, so rumour said, although the Duke had denied it. Champart himself, after whining to William, had ridden direct to Rome, to reiterate his complaints against England to the Pope, who would, no doubt, listen with sympathy, but was, for all that, impotent to do anything to help. England was a wealthy and strong-minded country; Rome could not afford to alienate her, and Normandy remained under an interdict of papal displeasure through William’s determination to marry without Church approval.

News of Swegn’s lonely death had been a further blow to Godwine’s bruised spirit. The lad had had his faults and weaknesses, but he had been his father’s first-born. Hard it was to set aside the memory of the child in arms, dimple-cheeked, pudgy-handed, reaching out to tug at his papa’s moustache. Hard to forget tossing the boy as if to the sky, hearing his screech of delight as strong arms caught him, whirled him around in dizzying circles. It was always the memories of the child, of the sun-filled summer days that lingered when death came calling. Harold, Edith, Tostig, the other boys seemed unconcerned that Swegn would not return to England. Gytha had said no word, shed not a tear. They were careful not to say so within their father’s hearing, but Swegn’s passing had been a God-blessed relief, for his quarrelling and indiscretions had been the main cause of Edward’s contempt. With Swegn gone, the barrier could be, if not lifted, at least raised a little. Godwine knew all that, but still he missed and mourned his eldest son.

Easter and the holy festival of the Crucifixion and Resurrection. The King moved his court southwards, to Winchester, where his council and nobles were obliged to attend him. Lent had been as long and demanding as the bitter winter before it, the weather as dismal as the restrictions on food. The Easter feasting was always welcome, at least at the King’s table where the shortages from poor harvests and a hard winter had little effect.

The King’s Hall was not so grand as his new palace at Westminster. Seating at the trestle tables, set in their rows, was cramped and limited in elbow room. Table manners held good if men knew the eyes of the King were on them, but lower down the end of the Hall, where men of lesser rank were seated, the rules were not so rigorously obeyed. It was thought bad manners to eat if the hands were not cleansed in the proffered water bowls, for a platter was shared between two or four people, food served in communal dishes for each individual to select: flat loaves of bread, cheeses, pastries, joints of meat—a wing of chicken, pigeon or pheasant, cutlet of lamb or pork. To plunge an arm up to the elbow to search for a choice portion at the bottom of the bowl was considered distasteful; to scratch at fleas and lice, at sweating armpits and more personal parts and then take food frowned upon. But once the ale jugs had passed several times around the tables, who cared about the niceties?

Regard to good manners was the difference between the highborn and the low. There was no swearing or spitting at the King’s table; finger bowls were fastidiously used. Better portions of the tastier, more appetising dishes were served. But Godwine ate and drank only sparingly. Indigestion niggled in his stomach, his appetite diminished by the King’s determination to ignore him. On several occasions during the afternoon, Godwine had attempted to ask Edward again what could be done to negotiate the return of his two boys. The King had deliberately turned his back.

Harold was not particularly enjoying himself either. He had settled with ease back into the responsibilities of his earldom, but then Harold was younger than his father, and had his wife and children to motivate him. For their future well-being, more than the politics, he had fought his way home from exile. The safety of the two boys was bothering Harold too, however, and, like Godwine, he had been unable to attract Edward’s attention or concern.

“The King will not help us with Wulfnoth and Hakon,” Harold said, leaning towards his father and selecting another portion of roasted chicken. “I am thinking that Edward wants them kept with Duke William for reasons of his own.”

Edward’s high-pitched laugh tumbled from the centre of the table. Godwine glanced in his direction, nibbling at a meat pastry. There was no pleasure in sitting here, being forced to listen, yet again, to Edward’s repertoire of frivolous anecdotes.

“If William has set his mind on Edward’s crown, then it would suit him well to hold English hostages—my son—for it would be Wessex who would protest most loudly against his insubstantial claim.”

“It suits Edward too,” Harold added, “for he has a new chain to bind us with.”

Godwine sighed and set down the half-eaten pastry. Hostages, ah, hostages. So damned useful to those who would use their innocence to their own unscrupulous advantage.

“We will secure their release, Father, when the time and situation are right.” Harold attempted reassurance. “Perhaps Edith can persuade him?” He flickered a glance along the laden table towards his sister. “She, out of us all, has come through the difficulties of the past month with equanimity.” He had not intended any malice in the remark, but the disparagement was unmistakably there.

His father said nothing. Edith had chosen her position as queen over that of daughter. If Edward was ignoring Godwine, then Edith, too, had decided that her father no longer existed.

Riding away from confinement at Wilton, she had shrewdly assessed her tactics for securing her future. Emma had seen the potential in the child and Emma had rarely been proven wrong. The weakness of your enemy can be turned to your strength. The Dowager Queen had known Edith would make good use of her wisdom. To make certain she would never again be removed or humiliated, Edith realised that she must make herself indispensable, must ensure that Edward could not survive without her. She could never capture his affection through her body, but there were other ways to bind him. His weakness was his self-doubt, his frail conscience and a desperate need to be loved by all. Her Achilles heel was her husband’s dislike of her father.

She began immediately upon her return to court by nurturing Edward’s vanity. She often admired his neatness of appearance, his self-restraint with eating and drinking, his depth of knowledge of scripture and history. She asked questions and listened to his answers with absorbed attention, soon discovering that it made him feel important to have her sitting rapt at his feet while he talked. As the new year ripened towards a late-come spring she had begun to discuss matters of interest with him, occasionally being mildly challenging. Lively debate was one of Edward’s favourite indoor pastimes, provided he always won any argument. It proved to be a game Edith was most adept at playing.

For Edward himself, disillusionment with last September’s events had been complete. He had never really wanted to be king, to have all this responsibility thrust upon him—oh, he enjoyed the pomp and respect that went with it, the sumptuous regalia, the authority, but where was the loyalty that did not need to be bought? The friendship that came without condition? He had thought Champart his friend. He had loved Robert, with a love that had perhaps not been suitable for one man to give to another, but Robert had never shied away from the closeness that had grown between them. Now he realised why, of course. It had not been for love of Edward that Champart had encouraged their bond, but for his own greed and ambition. The hurt speared deep. Edward felt battered and used. Like a drum beaten to keep the time and pace for the whirl of the dance and then tossed aside, forgotten and useless when the skin had lost its tautness. More than the hurt, Edward recognised that he had been played for a gullible fool; his pride was damaged, far more difficult a thing to heal.

Entertainment by jugglers and acrobats complemented the lavish feast, but once the bellies were full and the ale passed around, a cry went up for the songs. Hands thumped the tables with approval as the harper, smiling his acquiescence, settled beside the hearth to tune his instrument. He waited for silence before he began a narrative of the hero Beowulf and his fight with the lurid monster, Grendel.

“And so the men led a carefree life and all was well,

’Til, with Hell in his mind,

Grendel, grim and full with hate,

Stalked the shadows: his malice made ripe for wickedness.”

To the left hand of Edward’s high table sat Leofric, with his wife and eldest son Ælfgar, a man nursing a grievance as black as any held by that hideous monster of the harper’s tale. Ælfgar sat hunched, goblet between his hands, scowling along the table at the guests who sat to the far side of the King. The Godwines.

“With the night came Grendel.

In the Hall the nobles after feasting,

Slept discharged from sorrow.

Mad in rage Grendel struck quickly, a creature of evil and hate.

Grim and greedy, unsparing and savage,

He grasped thirty warriors and away he fled homeward,

Glutted and bloody with the stain.”

Ælfgar sympathised with the monster. To be taunted by the laughter of men who flaunted what they had beneath the noses of those who had been stripped of wealth and position because of them. Ælfgar’s fingers strayed to the hilt of his meat dagger. He had no other weapon, for it was forbidden to carry arms to table. Huh! He would need no weapon, he could do it as Grendel had, with his bare hands! His fingers could rip Harold’s throat, choke the laughter from Godwine’s age-withered windpipe…

East Anglia had been granted him when Harold and his kin had been driven from England. He had worn the title until the Godwines had returned, curse them and all their seed! Without pause, Edward had bowed before their every demand, presenting his backside for them to kick. Godwine reinstated as Earl of Wessex; to Harold, East Anglia rebestowed. To thrust the dagger further into his guts, his own father Leofric had agreed to it. No one at court had supported Ælfgar. All they had wanted was an amicable peace. Amicable? Well it was not amicable to Ælfgar! He did not want this merry carousing or the telling of heroic tales. He wanted an earldom—Harold’s earldom.

“Grim and greedy”—how that phrase suited Godwine and his brood of thieves! Aye, magpies perched on a branch, waiting to take all they could for their own!

“Look at Wessex sitting there—it makes my flesh creep to watch him. Grendel himself would be more pleasant to behold than he squirming for favour.” Ælfgar muttered the abuse beneath his breath, but his father heard.

“I have never personally liked Godwine,” he rasped in return, “but I respect him. Holding a position of authority takes more than the ability to wield axe and sword. When a man becomes a leader he needs diplomacy and tact. And to know when to keep his mouth shut.”

“That is why Godwine and Harold are so successful, is it?” Ælfgar sneered.

“Aye,” his father answered curtly. “That is why.”

“…Grendel waged war with Hrothgar, the wrongs he did the King!

He watched and waited,

Walked nightlong through moorland mist.

What man can know the mind of the demon and the damned?”

***

“Godwine would know of that.” Ælfgar snapped disdainfully. “The wrongs he has done his king.”

The harper had reached a pause in the narrative, laid his palm on the humming strings of his harp to still its voice, and the Hall was silent. Save for Ælfgar’s ill-mannered remark.

Eyes turned to Leofric’s son, who reddened, but stared back defiantly. The silence hung like an icicle suspended over an overhang of rock.

“And what mean you by that?” Earl Godwine asked placidly. Despite eating so little, the pain of indigestion had returned.

“I speak only what comes to mind. That you sit so at ease, without conscience, beside the brother of one you once had murdered.”

Gasps, a bench scraped back, several of Godwine’s personal housecarls coming ominously to their feet. Countess Gytha put her hand to her mouth; Harold’s fists clenched. But for all those who were shocked and angered by Ælfgar’s accusation, there were more than one or two who discreetly nodded their heads in agreement.

Godwine sipped his wine, letting the red warmness trickle down his throat, allowing his heartbeat to steady from the erratic lurching thud that seared through his chest. “I have said before and I say again, I am innocent of that ancient mischief. I took the boy Alfred prisoner, I agree. It was I who misguidedly placed him in the hands of Cnut’s son—had I known how grievously he was there to be treated, I would not have done so.”

“So you again insist that you had naught to do with his murder?”

“I do.” The tightness in his chest was becoming worse; he would need ask Gytha for some mint leaves to chew.

Edward was becoming flustered, uncertain how to control this swift up-rush of anger. He did not want quarrelling at his table; Ælfgar ought be reprimanded, yet he had never been able to accept Godwine’s denial of his part in that heinous death. He waved his hand at the harper, signalling him to begin the next part of the tale, but Ælfgar, wine muzzying his better judgement, retorted, “How easy it is to proclaim words of protest when there is no one to refute them. I wonder if the prince, Alfred, would agree with you, were his spirit here?”