I Am the Chosen King (3 page)

Edyth flushed. There were far too many disconcerting men here this night! The fierce but kindly Earl Godwine; Earl Harold whose laughing eyes made her stomach twist into perplexing somersaults; and Earl Swegn who made her heart lurch with fright. How could two brothers be so different, she wondered, as she flattened herself to the side of the narrow porchway, her head dipped, eyes lowered? Thor had squeezed ahead as the door had opened; she could hear him barking at her father’s hunting dogs shut within the kennels.

“Excuse me my Lord,” she apologised. “I did not know you were there.”

Swegn pushed arrogantly past. “Keep that damned dog under control,” he snapped. “He almost had me over.”

“I will my Lord, I’m sorry.”

Swegn’s hand swung aside the doe-hide curtain, hung to deter the persistent draught, let it fall behind him, and stood for a moment within the Hall, the many smells and sounds assaulting his nostrils and ears. Sweat and other human odours mingled with the lingering aroma of stale wine, ale and food; of wood smoke, hot candle-wax, and the sawdust of the timbers of the Hall itself. The faint scent of herbs, scattered and crushed underfoot among the layers of floor rushes. His father was seated beside the hearth fire, feet resting, crossed at the ankles, on the low wall of enclosing bricks. He was laughing, his hand going forward to slap his friend Eadric’s shoulder, wine slopping from a goblet clutched in his other hand. Tostig was not there; he would have found himself a bed. Tostig was not one for drinking and whoring.

Whirling around, Swegn ducked out through the curtain again, kicking the door beyond open with his boot. Damn it, why should his brother monopolise the girl? Beside being the eldest, was he not the better-looking of the two? The more experienced, the better endowed?

Edyth’s heartbeat was still pounding as she crossed the courtyard. God’s love but she would be pleased when these guests of her father’s moved on, northwards, tomorrow. Admittedly, it was exciting having all these people here, sharing with them a feast that, in her memory, had never before been so lavish, not even for the celebration of Yule. Exciting, but so very wearying. Oh, her father was enjoying himself, but her mother had looked flustered for most of the evening; would the wine and ale last? Would there be enough to eat, the boar and ox roasted evenly? Would Earl Godwine be comfortable in the big wooden-built box bed that sufficed for her and her husband? Huh, another thing that riled Edyth: her mother and father had given up their private chamber to the north end of the Hall for Earl Godwine; she herself had been moved out of her smaller adjoining room for the Earls Harold and Swegn. She did not much like the thought of that gruff-voiced man, Swegn, using her bed.

She kicked at a stone, sending it bouncing and tumbling ahead of her, gasped as a hand clamped her waist and fingers caught at her hair, spinning her round. A man’s mouth fixed over hers, stemming the scream. He smelt of ale and sweat. His lips were wet, his moustache rough and hard against her skin. He let go of her hair, began fumbling at the lacings of her bodice. Edyth kicked, her boot slamming into his shin; his mouth left hers as he yelled at the sudden pain, but his hand tightened about her waist, pulling her body closer into his own. It gave her the opportunity to scream though, a piercing call cut off abruptly as his knuckles rammed across her cheek. She cried out, expecting a second blow and tried to break free of his grip, but a shape, huge and strong, rough-coated, silent and fast, leapt at the man. The dog’s weight and impetus knocked Swegn backwards, sending him sprawling into the mud and scattered piles of dung.

As he fell, Swegn’s fingers were already drawing his dagger from its leather sheath; the dog, snarling and growling, had his teeth fixed firmly into his lower leg. The padding of the cross-gaitered leggings protected the flesh, but those jaws were clamped as tight as a snare. Lying sprawled on his back, Swegn tried to shake the beast off, cursing and shouting.

Men were coming from the Hall, another running from the path beside the barn. Swegn managed to bring his weapon up, ripped it through the dog’s throat. The animal yelped, blood sluicing in a gush of red stickiness. Edyth, standing with her hands over her mouth, screamed again, her anguish thundering up to the rain-laden clouds. She ran forward, falling to her knees, cradling Thor as he whimpered, tried to lick her face. Died.

Tears cascading her cheeks, she cried, “You bastard! You bastard! You’ve killed my dog!”

“Bloody thing attacked me!” Swegn was scrabbling to his feet, men and women from the Hall, from outbuildings, the kitchen place, gathering round with solemn faces. Godwine was there, pushing his way through the crowd; Eadric; Edyth’s mother, her hair unbound for she had been preparing herself for her bed, a pace behind, a woollen cloak flung carelessly around her shoulders.

“Damn thing was vicious!” Swegn said again.

“He was protecting the girl!” Harold was there, angry. “Protecting her from you,” he repeated, taking a step nearer, jaw clenched.

Swegn ostentatiously sheathed his dagger, spread his hands, protesting his innocence. “Nonsense. I was merely intending to—”

Harold brought his left hand up, the knuckles balling into a fist, ploughing into Swegn’s face, sending him sprawling on to his backside. “I saw what you were doing, saw it all. You disgust me! You, my own brother, bring dishonour to me. Disgrace me before these good people who have freely offered hospitality. How dare you?” Bending, Harold’s fingers tightened around Swegn’s tunic neckband and dragged him to his feet. “Someone saddle his horse!” he ordered. “You will leave here, now.”

When a man is caught in the wrong, often his only defence is anger. Swegn turned on his brother, his dagger coming automatically back into his hand. He hurled his own left fist into Harold’s belly and, almost within the same movement, brought his knee up into his groin. Harold doubled over, let go his hold of the neckband, air whooshing from his mouth, and Swegn leapt forward, the blade stabbing down, ripping through Harold’s cloak and tunic, gouging a diagonal path of blood that instantly welled and oozed through the torn fabric.

Bellowing, Godwine clamped his broad hands on to his eldest son’s shoulders, threw him to his knees, snatched the weapon from his hand. “Do you dare disgrace me also?” he roared. “Drawing a blade on your own brother? Brawling like some gutter-slave? Get you to your horse and go!”

“I’ll not be ordered about by a younger brother…”

“It is not a younger brother who commands you,” Harold gasped, stumbling to his feet, his right hand clutching at his left shoulder.

“It is the Earl of East Anglia who speaks. You will leave my earldom or face a charge of incitement to war and therefore answer to the King. A charge that carries the penalty of treason.”

Swegn glowered at his father. “Are you going to allow him to treat me like this? Let him insult me, accuse me, before all these people?”

Godwine answered his eldest son with a brusque snap of undisputed authority. “He is earl of these people, not I. It is his word to be obeyed here, not mine.”

A servant had run for the stables, saddled Swegn’s horse and brought him out, followed by the four men of Swegn’s personal guard, his accompanying housecarls. Swegn swung into the saddle and, angrily pulling the horse’s head round, spurred it into a canter. As he rode towards the opening gate he shouted defiantly, “Have the little whore for yourself then, brother. I hope she carries the pox!”

Harold winced. So, this was something else that he had gained from being given the honour of an earldom. He had position and wealth, coupled with respect and admiration, but from his younger brother, Tostig, there were signs of emerging jealousy and from his elder brother a declaration of dislike that had passed beyond the petty squabbling of siblings. Harold had acquired authority and, in this instance, did not much like its company.

The girl was bent over the dog, cradling his warm body, her head buried into his rough coat, shoulders heaving as she sobbed. Ignoring the blood running down his arm, Harold hunkered down beside her, did not know what to say. “I’m sorry, lass,” was all he could think of. It did not seem adequate. He was not surprised that he received no reply.

Wilton Nunnery

Earl Godwine’s daughter, Edith, skipped excitedly down the three steps that led from the guest apartments, her white linen veil fluttering, her arms spread wide. If the abbess had seen her, she would have been sharply reprimanded. Ladies, especially within the confines of the nunnery, did not run nor did they raise their voices, unless singing praise to God.

“Harold!” Edith shouted, breaking into a faster run as her feet touched the paving of the courtyard. “Where have you been? You are the last to arrive, all the others are here. We have been waiting for you!”

The man entering through the far gateway, leading his stallion out of deference to the holy sisters, looked up and smiled. Edith always had been an exuberant child. Wilton was the best scholastic institution in all England for the rearing of titled young ladies; she received a fine education here, could read and write Latin, Greek, French and English, speak Danish and Gaelic with fluency; could sew and weave, sing, and play music—but never, Harold maintained, would she learn the discipline of modesty.

“Sister!” he responded, passing the reins to his servant and lengthening his stride to meet the running girl halfway across the wide expanse of the paved courtyard. A few early-fallen autumn leaves, hustled by the boisterous wind, whirled in a brief dance, while the stately elm trees, marching behind the east wall, rustled with its passing. Away to the left the rooks were noisily squabbling and the delicious smell of new-baked bread wafted from the bakehouse. Wilton was a welcoming place, serene, yet homely. “I am certain you have grown since I saw you last in Winchester at Easter!” Harold declared, catching Edith around the waist and whirling her high in the air.

She was a pretty girl with unblemished skin, wide blue eyes, fair hair and a mouth that could form easily into a smile. Edith put her hands on her brother’s broad shoulders, squealed with indignation as he swung her upwards.

“Put me down!” she demanded, wagging an admonishing finger as he set her on her feet. “You must not do that. I am no longer a child to be tossed and played with, I am come to fourteen years of age this day.” He ought not to have to be reminded of such an important matter!

Suitably chastised, Harold nodded gravely. “Indeed, you are becoming too old for childhood games. Too old for presents also, I assume?”

Her frown instantly disappearing, Edith ran to the servant’s packhorse and began to rummage at the intriguing bundles strapped to its back. “What have you brought me?” she asked, breathless. “Father and Mother have given me a fine ruby necklace and Swegn”—she turned to look at Harold, her eyes sparkling—“Swegn has brought me a pony! It comes from the mountains of Wales. The best birthing-day present I have ever had!”

Harold said nothing as he began unlacing one of the larger bundles. It was inevitable that Swegn would be here to celebrate their sister’s special day, but Harold had half hoped that the eldest-born might have been busy elsewhere, snared by duties within his own earldom of the Welsh border Marches.

The quarrel that had occurred between them at Easter had not ceased. That insult to their host and his daughter—the insult and injury to Harold—had been unacceptable. The wound had been deep, slow to mend, and had left a scar that slanted from collarbone to shoulder. Harold had been justified in demanding Swegn leave East Anglia, but was it justifiable to continue this displeasure at his brother’s drunken behaviour?

Hopping from foot to foot, impatient for Harold to untie the cloth-wrapped package, Edith told him of the pony: “I have called him Hafren, after the Welsh name for the border river. He is a grey, neat little ears and a long mane and tail. Very placid-tempered.”

“Hah! He’s not like the rest of the Welsh then! Nor the brother who gave him to you,” Harold remarked sarcastically. He lifted the rolled bundle down and passed it to his sister. “I trust he is in a more agreeable humour than when I last saw him?”

Edith ignored the comment. From Tostig’s frequent letters she knew of the rift between her two eldest brothers. He had, no doubt, elaborated the facts, but even allowing for Tostig’s exaggeration, for two men to fight over a dead dog…oh, for heaven’s sake! But then, the two brothers rarely needed much of an excuse to be at each other’s throats.

Edith unrolled the parcel to disclose a fur cloak. Tossing its weight around her shoulders, she stroked the softness. “I can wear it when I am riding my pony,” she said, delighted.

“It’s marten,” Harold protested gently. “Very expensive.”

“So was the pony,” growled a man’s voice from behind them, Harold swung round, came face to face with his brother Swegn. For a long moment they regarded each other through narrowed eyes. Was the argument over?

“So, the new earl comes in all his glory,” Swegn observed, fingering the rich cloth and fur trimmings of Harold’s own mantle. “East Anglia’s taxes are of benefit it seems.”

“My revenue is no greater than is yours, brother.”

“Maybe not, but you do not have to supervise an unsettled border that has heathen Welsh regularly swarming across it to raid, burn and steal.”

“Things appear calm enough if you can purchase their ponies.”

“Ah!” Swegn barked. “The Welsh make sport out of annoying us English, but equally, they seize any chance to part us from our gold!” With the knack that Swegn had of abruptly changing mood, he clapped Harold’s shoulder and then elaborately embraced him. The dispute was over then, Harold returned the embrace and together they walked towards the guest chambers, Edith trotting happily between them, chattering about the entertainment planned for her visiting family. A cynical thought crossed Harold’s mind, but he shrugged it aside. What was Swegn after? Something important enough for him to swallow his pride and admit he had been in the wrong? It might not have been much of an apology, that embrace, but it had been, without doubt, a gesture of repentance. It would be churlish not to accept the peace offering; all the same, the suspicion that had come so easily into Harold’s mind stayed there.

***

A young novice crept into the guest hall where the Godwine family and the Abbess of Wilton were seated, engaged in the easy conversation that flows between long-term friends and kindred. She dipped a reverence before the Abbess, whispered a message into her ear. The lady listened, nodded. For a few seconds she sat, fingers interlaced, thoughtful. Noticing, Earl Godwine asked with concern, “My Lady? Is anything amiss?”

The Abbess smiled warmly and stood. Out of courtesy to her status the men in the room, Godwine and his sons, rose also. “No, nothing is amiss, merely”—she laughed lightly—“a little awkward.” She spread her hands, her smile remaining wide. “It seems that the Queen is to arrive at Wilton, seeking accommodation for the night.”

Godwine too smiled, although no one else in the room echoed his pleasure. “My Lady Emma, arriving here? This is indeed a pleasant coincidence!” He turned to his daughter. “Edith, get you out into the courtyard to greet her. The Queen will not be aware that it is your birthing-day, she must be invited to join our family celebration. One of you boys go also.” Godwine flapped his hand at his group of sons who exchanged rueful glances. Harold shrugged good-naturedly. Obedient, but with a sullen scowl, Edith left the room, accompanied by the novice and Harold.

The Countess Gytha, Godwine’s Danish-born wife, had already realised the dilemma this posed the Abbess, even if her husband had not. She rose to her feet. A placid, genial woman, Gytha was doubly blessed with handsome looks and an alert mind. Evening was an hour or so away; soon the abbey gates would be closed and locked, the nuns seeking the solitude of prayer and then their beds. The guest apartments would be lit with candles and torches, supper served and wine brought; talk and laughter would last, in this quarter of the nunnery, well into the late hours of darkness. “The Abbess, my dear,” she said, threading her arm through her husband’s, “is placed in a somewhat difficult domestic position. The Queen will be requiring the principal bed-chamber.”

Godwine frowned, not understanding her.

“Husband, it has already been allotted to us.”

With gallantry, embarrassed that he had not immediately seen the problem for himself, Godwine stepped forward and raised the Abbess’s hand, touching his lips to her ring. “My good Lady, there is no difficulty. We will remove ourselves to a different chamber this instant.”

“My Lord Earl, that is most kind of you, but where can I put you? Your sons have our other chambers.” The Abbess’s concern showed clearly in her expression. Wilton was a place that relied heavily on noble patronage; it could not afford to offend anyone, least of all the King’s mother or the Earls Godwine, Swegn and Harold.

“One of them will share,” Godwine gazed expectantly across the room at his eldest, Swegn, whose answering, lazy smile was uncharacteristically co-operative.

“No problem, I’ll go in with Harold.”

***

Within the half of an hour the Earl’s personal belongings were removed from one chamber to another and Emma was settling herself, washing her face and hands from a bowl of warmed, rose-scented water, changing travel-stained garments for fresh robes. Her journey to Wilton had been annoyingly interrupted by a series of delays ranging from a lame horse to a fallen bridge, washed away by the recent rain. Her intention had been to arrive earlier in the afternoon, preferably before Earl Godwine—but no matter, as long as her meeting with him appeared to be by chance…

Emma contemplated her reflection, distorted slightly by the curve of the silver hand mirror. She was still a handsome woman, despite four and fifty years of more disappointments than happiness. The lines creased around her blue eyes, mouth and chin, and the predominance of silver in what had once been sun-gold hair, added wisdom to her looks, not age. Her cheeks were more hollow than a few years ago, and her long, slender hands were wrinkled and brown-flecked, with knuckles that were beginning to bend and ache. But her mind was as alert as ever it had been; her thoughts as quick, her expectations as high.

The succession of tragedies, the broken hopes, the faded dreams, had all taken their toll of her energy, and occasionally her will to go on. But Emma was descended from a warrior race, the North Men, the Viking seafarers, and like those infamous ancestors she was a fighter, one who would unflinchingly face death rather than admit to the shame of defeat.

And she would not,
would not
, be defeated by the spineless toad-spawn that was her only surviving son, Edward!

She flicked her fingers at her handmaid, indicating that she was ready to have her veil fastened in place and leave her chamber, to join Godwine and his family. With a smile that barely touched her lips, she took a small, moderately valuable brooch from her jewel box. A gift for Edith. Nothing, no action, no word, must give the impression that this meeting was anything but coincidence. Edward had his spies, he mistrusted her as much as she did him—perhaps he was not so much the fool after all? Left to make his own decisions, he was an incompetent, but as king he had the benefit of older and wiser men to advise him. Men like the Earls of Mercia and Northumbria, shrewd men, who mistrusted the easy friendship that existed between Godwine and the woman who had once held the reins of power in England. And, despite his personal inadequacies, Edward knew only too well the extent of his mother’s capabilities. Aye, if the Queen wished to have a confidential word with Earl Godwine it must be done with great care.

Just in case Edward found the sense to listen to advice and had employed someone to watch her.

***

The bed-chamber door closed with a shuddering bang, the ensuing draught sending the lamplight twisting and flickering. As he entered and crossed to a table on the far side, Swegn’s distorted shadow leapt grotesquely against the richly embroidered wall coverings. “Wine?” he asked, his voice loud in the quiet of the room. Not waiting for an answer, he poured two generous goblets.

Harold closed the bed fur tighter round his body, willing sleep to return.

“You’re not asleep, are you?” Swegn turned to face the bed, incredulous; it was not yet the tenth hour. He strode across the room, pulled back one of the partially drawn bed curtains and roughly shook the mound that was Harold. “I want to speak with you.”

Emerging from the furs, Harold blinked wearily. He had known sharing a chamber with Swegn would not be a good idea. “I’m tired.” He yawned. “Today I had a long ride, tomorrow I have another. The lure of sleep, Swegn, is more enticing than conversation with you. Can it not wait until morning?”

Swegn proffered the goblet in his hand. Harold sighed, swung his legs from the bed and pulled one of the furs around his shoulders. With the brazier offering only a dull, half-hearted glow, the room was chill and draughty, with tendrils of a northerly wind scurrying beneath the ill-fitting door and through numerous cracks in the timber walls. Several of the tapestries were rippling, restless, nudged by the constant irritation.

Swegn selected wood from the pile and chivvied the reluctant fire into life. Going back to the table, he lifted his own goblet, took a deep swallow, licked his lips and wiped the residue from the trail of his moustache with the back of his hand. He had already drunk well all evening, but there was always room in his belly for more. “Wilton has two things worth this annual, tedious family reunion.” He drank again, belched. “The lure of untouched virgins and the best wine in all England.”

Harold sipped at the goblet in his own hand, tucking the fur tighter around his legs. He wore woollen braies and stockings, but still his feet were cold. With his brother’s second comment he could not disagree, but for the first? Ah, Swegn had never been one for minding his manners.

“What is it you want?” Harold queried. Another yawn, wide and lingering, rippled through him. He brushed bleary tears of tiredness from his eyes.

“Want? I want nothing.” Swegn’s protest came too quickly. “I wish to talk, brother to brother.” His accompanying smile was intended to be reassuring; to Harold it was more of a leer. “Earl to earl.”