I Am the Chosen King (46 page)

The fury choked in Harold’s throat. Vomit rose in his gullet. So this was why he had been kept in Normandy, why he had been played for the simpleton! Once the annual day of oath-taking was past, once he had pledged this foul promise, he would be free to return to England. Aye, free, but bribed with the lure of the daughter of the duchy as wife, threatened with harm to his brother if he refused. Yet for the good of another an oath might be made and broken without loss of honour. For the good of Hakon, and more, for the safety of England…They were only words, after all.

Harold stepped forward, his throat and lips dry, his fists clenched. He stared with a hard dislike at William, then knelt, touched the sword and set his lips to the Duke’s ring.

William nodded his acceptance, but before Harold could repeat the oath said quickly and with menace, “I think I may need some further assurance from you, my Lord Harold. Being that you do not reside here in Normandy.” He clicked his fingers; two servants brought in two wooden caskets. “These contain the holy relics of Normandy’s most precious saints. Swear your oath on them, Earl Harold, make your words truly binding.”

Harold’s rage almost boiled over the edge of restraint. It was one thing knowingly to break an oath made to a man, another to do so against God. Yet was not God, too, just and honourable in His wisdom? Did He not respect the time-cherished ways of the Saxon kind? Not bothering to mask the rage that was churning in his mind and stomach, Harold laid a finger on each casket, repeating aloud the words of fealty that Bishop Odo dictated to him: “I pledge to my Lord Duke William, son of Robert of Normandy, my fealty and my loyalty. Do offer my duty as Earl of England to your honour. To speak your words, as if spoken from your mouth, to the noblemen of England’s realm. To provide for you, when Edward is at the end of his noble life and called unto God, the crown, the sceptre and the throne of England, so that you may rule in the way of Edward’s wisdom.” It was done. With gorge in his mouth, but done.

Duke William nodded, satisfied. He took and held Harold’s hand between his own palms a moment. Met, as he rose to his feet, Harold’s blazing eyes.

In them there was no calm of spirit, no come-what-may frivolity. Nor was there any hint whatsoever of fear. In that one brief passing instant William realised he had made a vast error of judgement. All these long months observing Harold, assessing him, deciding his worth, moving each piece of the game, square by square, slowly, surely; calculating the ultimate goal. Again and again William had won his private tournament against this English Earl Harold.

Looking direct into Harold’s eyes, that mid-December afternoon, William belatedly understood, with stomach-churning dread, that Harold, too, had been playing a game. His foolery, his complacence, his mild manners had lulled his opponent with blithe ease into a false appraisal.

Harold said nothing more as he turned without bowing and walked away from the dais. He made his way through the low murmuring of the crowd to the doorway, Hakon following at his heel. He left the Hall and went direct to the quarters where his men lounged.

“We are leaving,” he announced curtly. “Now, as soon as horses may be saddled and our belongings packed.”

He turned away, realised Hakon had followed.

The younger man’s expression was grim, his skin grey and pale. “Now do you believe me about William?” he asked.

“I never doubted you, lad. I only misjudged the depth of how much of a bastard he is.”

Hakon headed straight to the stables. “I have nothing that I care to take with me from this cursed place. I shall await you by the gates.”

Harold made no comment, was barely listening. Over the spilt blood of death would William become king of England, and never with help from Harold’s hand. That was a second, silent oath that Harold had made as he had spoken aloud those obscene words. That never, never, would he allow William on to English soil.

If the need came, if there was no one worthy or suitable to follow Edward, then he, Harold Godwinesson himself, would take up the crown and do his best, unless death prevented it, to protect England from Norman ambition.

York—December 1064

The five men leant their arms on the worn and stained table, each close-cradling a pewter tankard of ale, each carefully watching who else might be coming, or leaving the tavern. They had deliberately chosen this corner table, tucked well into the shadows, in an inn not often frequented by men they might know.

“Even if we are espied,” Gamalbearn had gruffly pointed out, “we are but five acquaintances quenching our thirst together.” The others had agreed, but not wholeheartedly.

“Aldanhamel was slain by Earl Tostig’s orders before the steps of the chancel at St. Cuthbert’s in Durham.” Ulf Dolfinsson said to his companions in a low, contemptuous voice.

“Aye, after he had pleaded sanctuary.”

“And all for refusing to pay in tax what he had not got.”

“A thegn such as Aldanhamel! Outlawed and slain in so vile a manner!”

The men shook their heads in sorrowing agreement with the last speaker, Gluniarn, all of them equally appalled at the profanity of what had amounted to murder within the sanctity of the cathedral.

“The King’s friend will stop at nothing to accumulate more wealth.”

“And it is us, mud-caked foot-stools beneath his feet, who are helping him achieve it.” Dunstan slammed his tankard back on to the table in disgust. Tostig Godwinesson: the name was becoming a curse on the lips of men suffering under his regime of discipline.

Some thought Earl Tostig’s ambition had grown worse since Gruffydd ap Llewelyn’s downfall. Until then, Tostig had concentrated on enforcing the haphazard and neglected laws, over-industriously some had said, but if a man committed a crime then he should be suitably punished. If too many men were beheaded for murder and rape, or had hands removed or noses slit for robbery, then perhaps there had been over-much crime in the first place. Not one of the thegns within Tostig’s jurisdiction had complained at his establishing the right to walk the roads without attack, but no thegn would tolerate this excessive demand for taxes. The North was so much poorer than the South by way of population, trade and sheer practicality of the rough, moorland terrain, and for that Tostig cursed and pined. Had he been made Earl of Mercia or Anglia, Kent or Oxfordshire…but no, he had the undowered North. He could not, in all reason, raise the level of taxation to match that of the richer South. Yet within a few weeks of his brother’s sailing for Normandy he had done just that, to the rage and disgust of those forced, by decree of the King, to pay homage to him.

The thegns agreed that it was the Welsh campaign, for all that it had been fought under Harold’s command, which made Tostig overconfident. It had given him the experience of the battlefield and the kudos of a victory. Since Wales, it had seemed that there was nothing beyond Tostig’s increasingly corrupt capabilities. The problem was compounded by the King’s unrestricted favour, for in Edward’s eyes Tostig could do nothing wrong; he would hear no word of criticism or grievance against him. The five men knew this for certain, for they had, by subtle means, tried. Had Earl Harold been in England these last months when the problems of the North had suddenly escalated, then things would have been different; he had the knack of holding both the King and his brother in check.

They were meeting, these five thegns, to discuss what they could do next. Dunstan voiced the frustration of them all. “I have eight and forty hides of land, for which I have paid sixteen shillings in taxation. I now must pay twenty-four. ’Tis too much, I cannot afford such an outrageous amount.”

Gamalbearn, the eldest of them, chewed his lip angrily. His father had been thegn before him and, aye, his father before that. They had fought loyally for England; he personally had sworn fealty to the old earl, Siward, who lay cold in his grave beneath the slate floor of St. Olafs church here in York. Siward had never been so grasping; Siward understood the ways and difficulties of those of the North; their steadfast traditions and their wary mistrust of the affluent, uncompromising South.

Nursing his ale, Ulf took up the complaint. “’Twas two shillings for every six hides, now it’s two shillings for four hides only. A goddamned increase of nigh on half as much again.”

The December afternoon was drawing to an end; dark came so early during winter. The open-fronted shops would soon be sliding their shutters closed, market stalls packing their wares. Micklagata, the main street, would be crowded with those who lived outside the city making their way home to steadings and farms, and this tavern was filling as folk, their work finished for the day, passed by on their way down the street of the shield makers, Skeldergata.

Gamal Ormsson jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating the growing press of customers. “We had best finish our business here.”

Reluctantly the others agreed. If Tostig received word that five of his thegns were talking together in the Black Bear down Skeldergata…aye, well, let him hear of it and speculate on the nature of their conversation!

“Then we agree.” Gamalbearn said, “that we must put our case to Tostig? Two of us shall go to the Earl’s palace and ask leave to see him. We must do it this night before he leaves for Edward’s Christmas Court.” He paused, looking from one man to another. All wore doubtful expressions, for they privately wagered that Tostig would not listen to one word spoken.

Dunstan selected five rushes from the floor, sliced with his dagger to make them all equal, then carefully cut two the shorter by half. Gathering the pieces into his fist so that all appeared the same length, he held his hand gravely to each man. One by one they chose. Gamalbearn, long. Gluniarn, long. Gamal, short. Ulf, short, leaving the last for himself. He could barely conceal his relief. Long.

“Then you go, Gamal Ormsson and Ulf Dolfinsson. Luck and common sense be your companions.”

Ruefully, the two men rose from the bench, finished their ale and shouldered their way through the tavern to the door. The light was fading outside as they made their way, cloak hoods thrown over their heads, towards Conig Street and the Earl’s palace.

Perhaps they would not have gone had they known Tostig had no liking for thegns who decided to challenge his rule of law. He was later to claim they had attacked him in a frenzied attempt at assassination.

Their three companions knew nothing of their fate until the next morning, when the heads of Gamal Ormsson and Ulf Dolfinsson swayed on spears, decorating in grisly warning the gatehouse above Micklagata.

Gloucester

Throughout the previous day the last of the noblemen and their families had been arriving for the annual winter gathering of Edward’s Council The royal buildings at Gloucester, never wholly suitable as a king’s palace, were crowded almost to capacity with the number of men and women housed beneath the rush-thatched roofs of guest chambers or sleeping crammed together on straw pallets in the Hall. Litters, wagons and carts were set, higgle-piggle, in the pasture beyond the gate, and the rain-flooded pathways were churned into deeper mud with the tread of so many hooves and feet. Over it all hung a smell of cooking that barely masked that of human body odour, wet horses and dogs, the mustiness of wet thatch and fungi-smeared walls and of drying clothing.

The rain had eased during the early evening of the previous day, although louring grey clouds threatened more of this wretched weather. Even so, Edward, bored with being within-doors, had decided to hunt. On Christmas Eve, four fattened geese had been slaughtered in broad daylight by a fox; Edward required no second misdemeanour to track down the thief come the earliest opportunity. Foxes were considered the creatures of the devil, their colour and stink being the very essence of hell. The King ordered all earths to be stopped with faggots and two peeled sticks set in a crucifix to warn the creature, should it attempt to return, that the wicked evil of gluttony and theft would be punished.

The throng that set out through the low archway of Gloucester Palace was in merry mood: about thirty or so men and six women mounted on fine horses that pranced and snorted, excited by the eager, yodelling voices of the hounds. The copse where the ground began to rise upwards to meet the thicker beech woods, where that pest of a torn-eared, grey-muzzled dog-fox often prowled, was to be their first draw. A vixen had also raised her cubs there last season.

“That be the beggar you are after.” Edward’s constable had informed Edward as together they had studied the paw prints by the goose pen on the day of the killing. “A cunning brute, who sets his brush close to Lucifer’s shadow, I’d wager.”

Trotting along the lane, Edith closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, enjoying the uncluttered openness of the outdoors and the fresh, clean aroma that assaulted her senses. There had been a catastrophe yesterday—the wind had lifted the shingle tiles almost clean off the solar roof, leaving the chamber below open to the weather. Her tapestries and furnishings were quite ruined; it was as if the wind had picked everything up, swilled it around and dumped it down again. The room would be unusable for days. Disaster would happen while they were in residence—why not while they were at Winchester or Westminster? So damned inconvenient! Apart from her bed-chamber there was nowhere to be private. Never over-fond of company not of her own choosing, Edith disliked the bustle of the Hall—the inane chatter and laughter, the nearness of so many unwashed people. She detested Edward’s palace here at Gloucester at the best of times. Why they always had to come here at this gloom-skied season she knew not. It would be so much better to spend Christmas at Winchester, but Edward insisted that tradition must be maintained. Tightening her fingers around the reins, as she rode along the slippery track, Edith vowed that when he was gone she would see about altering poxed tradition. She and Tostig together would have the opportunity to change many things once the Council declared them joint regents of England.

She glanced ahead at her husband. Edward was talking animatedly to Tostig on his right-hand side; on his left rode the boy, Edgar, joining in, chatting about their shared love of hunting, no doubt. She smiled. They made a most appealing trio: king, earl and ætheling.

Edgar would reach his teen years on his next birthing day; a dutiful lad, attentive to his studies of history, languages, numbers, reading and writing, but just as eager in his lessons at archery and weapon practice. Polite and devoted to the King, there were few who doubted that, as a man grown, Edgar would be unanimously chosen as the successor—but unless Edward should live for many a year more, the boy was still too young to rule. Would yet need a guiding hand on his shoulder. And Edith had every intention of ensuring that hand would be her own entwined with Tostig’s.

Edward doted on her brother, constantly sought his companionship; moped and mithered like a disconsolate child throughout the interminable months when Tostig had to be in his earldom. On occasion it nauseated Edith, this reliance that her husband placed on Tostig’s company—and if she felt sickness rising into her throat when Edward simpered over him, then how did Tostig himself contend with it? Her brother loathed Edward’s attentions but, like herself, knew the reward that might lie at the end of it all. What were a few smiles and platitudes in exchange for a kingdom?

They reached the copse and spread out, waiting for the huntsmen to unleash two couple of hounds and send them into the undergrowth.

Recently, other more ambitious thoughts had been preoccupying Edith’s mind. Edward was getting old, almost three score years. His skin was wrinkled and pocked with brown age freckles. His white hair, short-sighted eyes and befuddled memory did not belie his age. Despite his insistence on hunting, he tired easily, but slept less at night, frequently dozing wherever he sat—more often than not while in Council or in judgement at law. He would sit on his throne, propped by cushions, and his eyes would cloud, head would nod, a snore emit from his occasionally dribbling mouth. He was not a dotard, or feeble, just old. They would leave him when he slept, Edith and whoever was assisting at whatever government function was under discussion. The King rarely made any relevant contribution anyway.

Since Edward’s last bout of illness had taken him to his bed for several weeks, Edith had begun to wonder if it were possible to play for an even higher reward than that of a regency. Even if Edward lived another year, or two, or three, there might be those who could be persuaded that Edgar was too young. The most suitable candidate would be chosen to take up the crown—and could the Witan of England, in all conscience, however much they admired the boy’s eagerness, regard him as suitable?

Within the copse a single hound spoke, then another. They had found the trail. Edith observed the winter undergrowth for any flicker of russet. For the chosen king not to be of full royal Wessex blood was unusual, but not unknown—Cnut had not even carried a shred of English blood in his foreign veins. Tostig was trusted, favoured by Edward, had proven his ability to govern. Northumbria had been a barbarian place until Tostig had set about imposing law and order. And had he not campaigned with success in Wales, distinguished himself in various skirmishes with rabbles from across the Scots border?

Hounds were speaking, singing their music in unison; the red rogue would be breaking cover shortly. What if Edward were to die soon? Next week, next month? It was possible. He could fall, or succumb to some dreadful illness. She refused to entertain the possibility of the opposite, of Edward living for many more years…no, he was an old man.

Someone a few yards along shouted. Gospatric, a thegn from Northumbria, but no friend of Tostig’s. He raised a horn to his lips, sounding a burst of quick notes. A flurry of blurred movement and a dog-fox shouldered, with an air of disdain, from the shelter of the bushes and loped away across an open ploughed field. The pack of hounds slipped quickly off their leashes, streaked away after him. Edward waved his arm, hollered and blew his own horn to sound the gone away. He kicked his horse into a gallop, Edgar and Tostig close at heel, with the rest of the hunting party in rapid pursuit.

Edith gave her plunging mare her head, forgetting all thoughts of intrigue, coronations and kings as the wind from her gallop whisked through her firm-secured veil, and her eyes watered and stung with tears, nothing but the reckless thrill of speed and freedom filling her exultant mind.

The fox was running easily, aware of his territory and the escape routes, all the shadows and sheltered places. He slipped into a smaller copse, trotting towards where he knew a deep-excavated earth to be, stopped, confused, as he found its entrance blocked with piled sticks and stamped-down earth, the intrusive unpleasant stench of man wrinkling his sensitive nostrils. He trotted on, heading uphill. The hounds had checked where he had entered the copse, were not able to slink so efficiently through brier and draping holly bush.

Gospatric Uhtredsson, thegn of Bamburgh, had only one thing in common with his overlord Earl Tostig, and that was a delight in hunting, although on his own manor, vermin such as foxes were poisoned or trapped, the thrill of the chase being preserved for more worthy game. However, he had to admit, as his horse plunged down the steep bank of a tumbling water course and through the swollen, white-foamed current, this red-coated beast was giving them a fine run. He kicked his bay up the far bank, swung him right, ducking low beneath the bare, low-sweeping branches of beech trees. A thin, whip-like branch caught his face as it swished backward; he cursed and put up his hand to feel blood oozing from a cut that jagged from nose to jawbone. Hauling his horse to a halt, Gospatric dismounted and, looping the reins through his arm, bent down to the stream, scooping cold water to dab at the cut.

The sounds of the others crashing on through the woods faded quickly as the chant of the horn told that the fox was once again streaking out into open country. Gospatric could catch up: it would be easy to follow the trail left by so many.

The horse was not so content to be left behind. The animal was snorting and stamping, neighing anxiously. Irritated, Gospatric tugged at the reins, but upset and excited the horse tossed its head with a sudden jerk and simultaneously backed away. The leather reins broke with a snap and the horse was gone, whirling around in a flurry of legs, dead wood, beechmast and swirled leaves from the autumn fall. The Northumbrian man leapt quickly but was not fast enough. He stood, fuming, as the god-damned animal galloped away after his companions.

Sour-faced, Gospatric slithered down the bank and waded into the rain-heavy rush of stream water. No good chasing after the beast, he would never catch the damned thing. Better to head for home. Huh, more than a five-mile walk! The water came to mid-calf, fortunately no higher, but the opposite bank was steeper and mud-churned. By the time he had pulled himself up to solid ground, he was thoroughly wet and grimed, and in poor temper. He called out, hoping some servant or peasant might be near at hand. Nothing. No sound save the raucous cawing from a nearby rookery and the toss of branches clattering against each other as the wind grubbed through the bare tree canopy.

As he stumbled on, his temper increased. Twice he slipped on wet grass as the woods began to drop sharply down; added to that, his boots, new a few days since, were already rubbing. He vaguely remembered urging his horse upwards through these trees—aye, there was the trail. Holding on to a low branch he wondered whether it would be safer, on this steep slope, to sit on his backside and slither down. A long, ditch-like gully ran off to his left—aye, he remembered someone shouting “ware the hollow.” He turned left slightly, then stopped abruptly. A mounded shape lay in the bottom of the chasm, protruding from the gush of sluicing rain water. A horse, a dead horse.

Minding his footing, Gospatric tentatively made his way over to the dead animal. Its neck was broken, he could tell. He thought he recognised the dark chestnut—a wry grin of smug satisfaction tilted the corner of his mouth upwards. Tostig’s horse. He edged around the body and stopped, folded his arms and stood looking down, the smug grin etching deeper.

Always thought he knew it all. Always the clever one who would never take advice from anyone…that was Tostig, Earl of Northumbria. Tostig, who lay, eyes closed, groaning, among the blackened, mud-crusted leaves, his leg caught beneath the bulk of his dead horse.

Gospatric loathed Tostig. Would, without qualm, wish him dead. Tostig was not from the North, had no right to bully those, like Gospatric, who were descended from the ancient noble families of Northumbria. Did this jumped-up whoreson think they would forget the brutishness with which he meted out punishment on the poor and the innocent? The viciousness of his oppression of freeman, thegn and noble alike? The arrogance of his demand for respect that he had in no way earned. His greed, his avarice. The murder of those two men at York—men Gospatric had known and liked.

Aye, Gospatric, the last surviving son of Uhtred of Bamburgh, whose family had once ruled in their own right, had no shred of compassion for Tostig. They had all been warned to beware of the gully, had ridden carefully around it, but not Tostig it seemed. Gospatric looked to the far side, where the top of the bank was pocked and distorted. Aye, the braggart fool had attempted to jump his horse over—well the man deserved all he got.

Tostig pleaded for someone to help. The fingers of his hand clutched helplessly at the soft earth, sweat stood out on his forehead. His eyes flickered, attempting to focus on the vague, misted shape of a man who stood above him.

“Please, help me! My leg is trapped.”

Gospatric said nothing. He pushed himself away from the dead horse, scrambled up out of the gully and swung on downwards, emerging out of the wood on to the grass common land that ran towards the town of Gloucester.

All colour had drained from the landscape, the sun blotted out by the thickening winter cloud. The wind, blowing from the northeast, drove a drenching rain across the hills. Gospatric shrugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders; he would be sodden to the bone before he reached home—but rain or no rain, he had no intention of hurrying. How could they prove that he had found him? None of them could. None of them would know. Serve them right for not realising he was missing from the hunt!

Christ’s truth
, Gospatric thought,
if a favourite’s presence cannot be missed, God help those Edward may dislike!

He walked on, keeping an eye to the approaching rain. Below, a big dog-fox, the colour of dead bracken, flowed along the line of a ploughed furrow, three fields ahead of the hunt. The cunning animal was doubling back on his tracks. The pack was closing, heads down, firm on the rank scent. Gospatric watched, fascinated, as the fox, out on common land now, swerved several times through a flock of panicked sheep then, leaping a stone-built wall, trotted direct through the centre of a farmyard, into the pigpen, disturbing the old sow, and out again on to the midden heap, where he took the opportunity to roll. Gospatric laughed. Hounds would never trail his scent through those rich odours.