I Am the Chosen King (34 page)

Budapest

When the wind blew from the north the settlement froze with the cold. When it came from the south-west everything would dry and wither. This August had been hot, but the wind had stayed in the south-east and the occasional fall of refreshing rain had kept a greenness to the fields, the streams and rivers at a reasonable height. Last year, and the year before that, drought had scorched the thirsty crops and then torrential rain had washed away anything that had struggled to survive. Clouds were forming in heaped, lazy banks over towards the distant mountains. Ædward wondered if the summer storms were to come again this year, to destroy what little they had managed to grow in the spent soil.

One more year of bad harvest and the settlement would be finished. Already the old were weak and thin, the young malnourished. He rested his broad hands on the door lintel. What to do? What best to do?

Behind him within the house place, the sound of the loom weights clicking together distracted him a moment. Agatha enjoyed her weaving, but even the wool from the sheep had been of poor quality this shearing. Edgar was playing with the hound pups, evidently too close to his mother’s feet, for Ædward heard her sudden scolding and then movement as the lad ran out through the doorway, ducking under his father’s upheld arms, the pups tumbling in a litter of wagging tails and joyful barks along with him.

Ædward caught at his son’s shoulder as his skidded past, his hand grasping his tunic.

“Now then, my mischievous lad, what have you been up to? Playing with your hounds near your mother’s loom again eh? Tsk, she’ll peel your backside one day!”

Edgar was four years old. He ought to be a chubby, well-grown, merry boy, but he was not. He was small and thin with a serious expression. His elder sisters, too, were both solemn-faced, slender girls. Slender? No, like their mother they were bone thin, lacking food to swell the flesh on arms, legs and face.

Ædward squatted before his son, staring into the boy’s blurred face. His sight was dimming; soon, he would lose what little vision he had. What could he do for his family then? Already it was hard to grow the crops, to hunt for game; to be ready with spear and sword when the riders came thundering over the plains on their shaggy ponies to plunder and kill what little there was.

“Both my grandfather and father were kings, did you know that?” he asked his son, who stood with his thumb in his mouth, staring back, blankly, at his father.

It frightened the boy when his papa began to talk of when he had been a child of almost the same age. Of when he and his brother had been huddled into a big dark boat and taken down a river called the Ouse, from somewhere called York. He knew neither of them, assuming they were other names for the river that ran beside the place his mama called Budapest. He had been there once and had not liked it much, for there were too many people and too much noise.

“We had to escape, my brother and I, for the new king, Cnut, was intending to kill us. For many years we wandered from one place to another, seeking shelter where we could. Then we went to Kiev and found service for our spears beneath the grand prince—oh, I was almost a man grown then, no longer a lad, like you.”

Edgar’s eyes swivelled to the four hound pups who had found an old rag of some sort and were tearing and tossing it. He wanted to join in the game.

“My brother died fighting for the prince, but I was fortunate enough to meet with your mother, the daughter of another prince, the brother of the Emperor of Germany. I married her and by and by, when my fighting days were over because of my failing sight, we came to live here, to farm this fickle valley.”

“Oh, for the sake of God, Ædward, look at those damned dogs!” Agatha had come from within doors and realised at once what it was the dogs were playing with. She ran forward, shooing with her hands, lunging for what had been her husband’s only decent cloak. “You sit there repeating those endless old stories and let the whelps shred your only good cloak! Ædward, I despair of you and this wretched place!” Suddenly she was crumpled to the ground, her face buried in the chewed rag, sobbing.

Ædward went to her and set his arm around her heaving shoulders. “Your discontent has grown each day since that messenger arrived. I am thinking that perhaps we ought to pay heed to the offer he brought us.”

Agatha looked up, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. She was twenty-five years old and felt as if she were fifty. Her husband was not much her senior, thirty-six years, yet he too looked like an old man. The wind did that to you, of course, this persistent wind that weathered soil, tree and skin alike.

“I do not know if we should accept your kindred’s offer of returning to England. We know nothing of Edward, of any of them. England shunned you. She lifted not a finger to help—until now. All of a sudden you are invited to return because there is no one else of the royal line? Can we believe that as the truth?” She lifted Ædward’s hands, pressed her lips against his wrinkled knuckles. “What use would you be to them, husband? You have not fought in more than ten years, you cannot see the spear you hold in your hand, to make no mention of the target you aim for. For all it pains me to say it, they will never deem you worthy of anything once they meet with you.”

Ædward turned his hands over to hold her fingers firm within his own. “Then you would rather stay here, in this wilderness, to die?”

She lowered her gaze, closed her eyes, shook her head. No.

“I have been thinking much on it. For me, no, there is nothing that I can give England, nor little that Edward can offer me in return, except for one thing. Hope. Hope for a better future for our two daughters and our son.”

“He is a child, they will not want him.” Agatha snatched her hands away and lunged to her feet, throwing the ruined cloak to the dogs who waited, tails wagging, a few yards away, Edgar squatting with them, his arms tight around the black and tan bitch.

Moving to grasp at Agatha’s shadowy figure, Ædward missed his first attempt, caught hold of her arm at the second.

“Do you not see? They need to find a man to be king after Edward. He is not old, he may live for many years yet—long enough for our son to grow. They have indicated that they are willing to offer us any form of safe conduct that we request—all we need do is stand firm for what we need for ourselves: an agreement of noble marriage for Margaret our eldest and the title of ætheling to pass to my son. For Edgar, Agatha, we must go to England. For Edgar, not for me.”

“But, fool of a man, they will not take him without you.”

“Of course not, but they do not know what they are getting with me. Unless we tell them, how will they know?”

At last a smile wavered at the corners of Agatha’s lips. She put her hand to Ædward’s chest, patting her agreement. “Anything,” she said, “would be better than remaining here.”

Edgar buried his head into the soft fur of his favourite bitch. He did not understand much of what his father and mother had said this day, or during the past two, since that man had come with word from this town called England. It was bigger than Budapest, they had said. If he did not like Budapest, then he would not, he supposed, like England. Nor did he like this talk of going to see a king. This king in England had tried to kill his father and had set him in a dark boat that had been pushed out into a river. Edgar did not think he would like a king who tried to murder children.

Gloucestershire

The day was bright and warm, the air suffused with the scents and sounds of a drowsy summer: warm earth, the sweet, heady smell of hay, pollen and clover; lazy bees about their plundering of nectar; cattle lowing in the water meadows; ewes calling to their growing lambs.

An idyllic day, except the King was in a belligerent temper and everyone else was sick of being camped here beside the ferry at Aust on the bank of the river Severn.

Strolling along the horse lines, Harold tugged an alder twig from a tree and began idly stripping the leaves, playing that childish game: she loves me, she loves me not…From the far bank a fish leapt for a fly, leaving the spread of ripple rings. His eye caught the brief flurry of bright blue as a kingfisher darted through the darker shadow of trees.

She loves me not. He sighed, tossed the bare branch aside and went over to his own horse, a new and spirited dark dun stallion who, yesterday, had gashed his fetlock. With an hour or so to spare while Edward attended his toilet, Harold thought he might as well tend it. As good a way as any to pass this first half of the morning.

The Welsh problem had come to a head in June. When the Bishop of Hereford had died, he had been replaced by Leofgar, a man devoted to God but also a capable warrior. Many disapproved of his habit of wearing a moustache when it was generally accepted that clerics went clean-shaven, but for the nervous population of Hereford he appeared the ideal choice. A pity that his enthusiasm won the better of his judgement. Eleven weeks after his consecration, he led an army impetuously into Wales. Outnumbered, he and his men had been annihilated at Glasbury on Wye.

Campaigning against these damned Welsh provoked one disaster after another. Edward had not the treasury, or the men, to waste on pointless campaigns. Settlement was the only alternative.

Truce with Ælfgar was simple to conclude, for his father was mortally ill. Soon, another earl would be required for Mercia and the honour, unusually premature, was offered to Ælfgar. For now he was to have Anglia returned to him, Harold’s brothers, Gyrth and Leofwine, being willing temporarily to step down from their award of joint custodianship, given them at Ælfgar’s exile until the vacancy became available again. Gruffydd, too, could see the sense of accepting the offer of border lands and estates without the need to fight for them. Of course, he would renege on the agreement at some time or another, but such were peace treaties: give a little, take a little; smile and offer pleasantries; ignore what would happen a few more miles down the track. If peace could be claimed for a month or a year then something had been achieved. The problem came with the petty pride of a prince and a king, neither of whom would give ground. One of them had to step on to the ferry and go to the other to exchange the embrace of peace. Both of them were arguing that the other ought to be the one to cross.

Edward had decided to appear at his best when Gruffydd disembarked from the ferry on to this, the English side of the Severn. His earls agreed that trimming beards or shaving, having a haircut and wearing of fine apparel was indeed suitable, but going to the extent of bathing, even given that the weather was pleasantly hot, seemed a little excessive. Not that Harold was averse to submerging himself in a tub of hot water, but he preferred to do so within doors and preferably with Edyth there to scrub his back and share in the additional intimate delights. To bathe in a tub in a tent, with tepid water, did not seem worthwhile.

Harold had named the horse Beowulf, after the warrior of the saga. He stood just below fourteen and a half hands with a deep chest, a bold eye, quick intelligence and great stamina and speed: all the best characteristics of Harold’s Wessex stud. Stroking the horse’s velvet-soft muzzle, Harold fed him a titbit of a stale bread crust and picked up the injured hoof. Already the cut was scabbed over; it would be healed in no time. Satisfied, Harold turned to make his way back to the royal tent and saw a young woman leaning with casual curiosity against the trunk of an ash tree.

“He is a fine stallion,” she said boldly, indicating the horse. “I would wager he has Welsh blood in him?”

Harold walked casually towards her, suddenly recognising her. “And how,” he asked with a trickle of amusement, “would you know of the breeding of ponies, and the characteristics of the Welsh breed in particular? Do they teach such things to the daughters of English exiles, then, within Gruffydd’s court?”

Ælfgar’s daughter, Alditha, pushed herself from the tree. She was slender and tall, only a few inches shorter than Harold, with eyes as dark as a well’s deep pool. She was fifteen years of age, balanced on the verge of womanhood.

“Prince Gruffydd had no need to teach me,” she retorted with a toss of her black hair, the two braids, each as thick as Harold’s wrist, bouncing against her shoulders and maturing breasts. The gesture reminded Harold of his stallion: alert and impatient. Beautiful.

She had emphasised the word prince, giving the lord of Wales his correct title, highlighting Harold’s lack of respect.

“I know of Welsh ponies from my mother. I have had such ponies for my own since before I could walk.” She tossed her head again and went to Beowulf, making her presence known by offering her hand for him to scent before touching him.

“He has the distinct dish to his face, a bold eye and a broad forehead, with small, well-set ears.” She cupped her hand around one to prove her point, only the tip protruding from her lightly clasped fist. “A pony ought not resemble a mule. His neck ought to be of good length, the shoulder sloping to a good wither. Your stallion can carry weight over long distances, but with it, he is agile and light-footed.” She ran her hand to his knee, indicating the strong joint, the flat bone. Then she cocked her head to one side to look at Earl Harold. “Well?”

Harold inclined his head. “He has half-Welsh blood in him, aye. His mother came from the mountains.” He raised one eyebrow, indicating the land across the river. “As did yours.”

Alditha returned Harold’s assessing look boldly. He knew her breeding as well as he did that of the horse. “My mother was the daughter of Iago ap Idwal, son of the line of Hywel Dda and Rhodri Mawr, She died when I was a child of ten years old.”

“Then you ought not have liking for Gruffydd. It was he who murdered your grandfather and took the title of prince from the dynasty of Gwynedd for himself, yet your father, her husband, would rather pledge his loyalty to the Welsh than those of us of his own kind?”

“I have no liking for Gruffydd, but he is at least a man who keeps his word. Unlike the English King.”

Harold laughed outright, head back, hands going to his hips. “Forgive me,” he said, spluttering, “but the innocence of the naïve is refreshing. Gruffydd? A man of his word? Ah no, my little lady, he keeps only those words that suit him.”

“Can you say that Edward is any the better?” she retorted. “Has he respected my father or rewarded him?” Her dark eyes flashed diamond sparks of anger at Harold’s mockery.

God’s teeth, but she is going to be a beauty within a year or two
, Harold thought. “The King has treated Ælfgar as he deserves, Mistress Alditha, And as for his merits? What merits would they be? None come immediately to mind.”

Again that flash of anger in her eyes, that proud toss to her head. She turned on her heel, intending to stalk away. “You dislike my father, but you have him wrong. He is a man of courage and pride, a man who cherishes his family and who weeps, still, for the Welshwoman he once had as wife.”

Her acerbic tone stung, but Harold was not one who took kindly to unjust accusations. He lunged forward and clutched her arm, answering her with the curt abruptness of the truth: “I do not dislike your father, girl, but neither do I respect him. He has the false courage of a fool and the pride of the vain. He thinks nothing of you nor your two younger brothers. He despises his second wife for her independent wealth and her good breeding. He has been disloyal to his own father. He may weep copiously for your mother, my dear, when under the eye of Gruffydd’s court, but he did not show her affection when she was his wife. I am older than you, your father’s temper has always been harsh. I never saw him treat your mother with kindness.”

Alditha attempted to prise his fingers from her arm, her eyes glaring into his, contempt matching contempt. Her anger was made the worse for knowing he spoke the truth. “My father said that those of you from Wessex were the whelps of a cur! He was right!” she snarled, piercing the skin of his hand with her fingernails.

Harold yelped, but held on. “That he probably was,” he retorted, “but it takes a cur to sniff out a cur.”

The girl swung her free arm intending to slap Harold’s face, but with the quick reaction of a fighting man he caught her wrist. Furious, she began struggling and kicking, her boot connecting several times with his shin. Harold held her body away from him so that her flying feet swiped ineffectually at empty air. Gods, but she was a firebrand! She had most certainly inherited the wild and dangerous nature of the Welsh from her mother. He did not know whether to tip her over his knee for a beating, or put his mouth to hers and kiss her. Were she not so young and vulnerable…by the Christ, perhaps it was time to return home to Edyth! He needed a woman.

“Your father cares only for the wealth and prestige of an earldom, naught else,” he panted, parrying another of her kicks by sidestepping. “Why else would you now be back on English soil? Why else has he already bowed his knee in homage to Edward? Yes, Leofwine, you seek me?” Harold darted a look at the young man who was approaching at a trot, his arm waving frantically, calling Harold’s name.

“Aye! The King is shouting for you, in a torrent of rage.” Leofwine, Harold’s younger brother, drew to a halt, panting slightly, his knowing grin admiring the girl struggling in Harold’s grasp. “It seems,” he continued, without taking his eyes from her, “that Edward is about to revoke the entire agreement that you and Earl Leofric have so painstakingly brokered. Gruffydd flatly refuses to cross the river, has sent a messenger to say that Edward must go to him. Our tactful king has threatened to slit that messenger’s nose and return word that he will do the same to Gruffydd for his insolence.”

Harold’s attention being occupied, Alditha took her chance and sank her teeth into his hand. Yelling, he let her go; instantly, she darted away. “My father allies to Gruffydd because the Prince of Wales is not a weakling fool like Edward. Your king will never outmatch either of them.” Then she was gone, with nothing but the call of an alarmed blackbird to mark that she had been there. And the teeth marks in Harold’s hand.

He winced, inspected the wound. She had drawn blood. “I agree with you about our king, my pretty one,” he said, then, louder, his hand cupped to his mouth, shouted after her, “but it will not be Edward who goes to war against Gruffydd! It will be me!”

“I thought you were going to kiss her,” Leofwine said, desperately attempting to keep the grin from his cheeks.

“I was,” Harold answered. “But the damn girl bit me instead.”

***

Had Edward stamped his foot, or lain down on his belly and kicked the rush-matting floor, Harold would not have been surprised. More often than not, the King behaved absurdly like a child when he was outmanoeuvred.

“I have given orders to break camp!” he shouted.

“And I have countermanded them,” Harold responded patiently.

“You cannot do that!”

“I can, I have. On your order, as your most able earl, I command the army, Sire. It is for me to judge what is prudent for the fyrd. It is not prudent to escalate a minor misunderstanding into a war.”

Almost apoplectic, Edward spluttered his rage, “Minor misunderstanding? Good God, this is nothing of the sort—it is an outright insult, sir! Outright insult!”

God’s truth
, Harold thought,
I see why my father was so often out of temper when returning from Edward’s court. I would rather face Gruffydd than try to persuade the King the meaning of diplomacy!

“Sire,” Earl Leofric interrupted, “it took Wessex and myself many wearisome days to bring about this peace. I have had to swallow my pride and forgive my son. In order to accommodate his reinstatement, Earl Harold’s brothers Gyrth and Leofwine have willingly surrendered Oxfordshire and Anglia that was divided between them on my son’s exile. We have all, in some way, had to concede something.”

“So I must humble myself to that upstart heathen? Is that what you imply?”

Leofric sighed. “No, Sire, that is not my meaning.” Brands of fire were twisting in his stomach. His wished his good lady Godgiva were here with her cool hands and soothing potions. Ah, not long now and he would join her in heaven where pain did not exist. His contemporaries were all gone—Siward, Godwine, Emma—and he was so weary of this turbulent life.

“Sire.” Harold took a step nearer to Edward, his hands spread. “Gruffydd is testing us. He is trying to establish how easy it would be to break this hard-won agreement, how deep he need poke with his stick. If we flounce away like blushing maidens whose modesty is compromised, what will he think of us? Will we not seem to him, to all the Welsh, as vulnerable as a nun in a brothel?”

The King did not reply. Eyeing a stool, Leofric wondered if he dare ask permission to be seated. He pressed his hand to the pain in his belly. “It will take a wise man to outmanoeuvre Gruffydd, my Lord King, and you, Sire, I am certain, possess that wisdom.”

Harold flashed the Earl a brief, grateful smile. They all wanted this thing done and finished. “Sometimes,” he said, on a wistful note, “it is the man who bends the knee first, who proves himself the stronger of mind and character, for it is he who can see the wisdom of preventing unnecessary bloodshed. Alas, such courage lives only in the hearts of the apostles and in Christ himself. No mortal man could willingly display such dignified humility.”

He held his breath…Edward’s brows had narrowed into a thoughtful frown. He moved to a small altar placed to the rear of his tent, knelt, joined his hands and bowed his head. Harold exchanged a hopeful, pleading look with Leofric…