I Am the Chosen King (52 page)

The callousness struck Gytha with almost a physical force. Was there no compassion in her daughter? Could she truly not see beyond the effect for her own self? “Judith has as much to lose as you, Edith—in fact, I would say more. The uncertainty of exile can be far worse than anything you will ever encounter.”

“My husband is dying and I shall lose my crown. Judith has a husband and hope for the future. Once Tostig returns to claim what is rightfully his with the ships he is commissioning, Judith will be reinstated as a countess—I can never again be Queen!”

“So, you have received word from Tostig. He plans to invade?”

“Yes!” Edith snapped her confirmation. “Did Father merely shrug and accept his earldom being wrongfully stolen from him? Was he content to accept exile? I think not, Madam! Tostig wants what is his and will fight to his last breath to get it, as our father did.”

Countess Gytha walked swiftly to stand before her daughter, her irritation giving way to quickened anger. “Your father went into exile to avoid bloodshed, came back with the intention of, as far as he was able, securing his earldom peacefully. He did not want to fight against his king, nor, daughter, was he a man of dishonour.” She nodded her head once, curtly, and left the room.

Why had sense, she wondered, been so poorly distributed between the children she had birthed?

Westminster

Before the last of the light faded from the wet December day, the twenty-seventh of that month, a tiler had managed to climb up the height of the scaffolding to place a golden weathercock in position upon the roof of Edward’s proud Westminster Abbey. Only from the west, from below the choir and from the outside, did the place resemble a building site. On the morrow, they would enter through the north door, see only the splendoured newness of the eastern end.

Harold stood alone facing the cloth-draped, bare altar. No candlestick, no salver or crucifix, nothing would adorn this holiest of places until the consecration and blessing. There was no sanctity within this wondrous building, nothing save the emptiness of space, height, of soaring walls, pillars and arches. With night beyond the tiers of narrow windows, the darkness crowded close, only the lantern in his hand and the few candles that burnt in wall sconces creating dim islanded pools of cheerful yellow brightness.

Yet there was a presence here. What, who, Harold could not decide. Nothing sinister, not a feeling of being spied upon, no, just a comfortable awareness of not being alone. Something, some faint-echoed shadow of expectancy of waiting. God perhaps? Harold wondered. Was He already here, waiting to be formally welcomed into His house?

The Earl of Wessex walked slowly towards the first in a row of wooden benches placed across the nave in readiness for the morrow. Tomorrow, there would be people here, many people. Tomorrow, too, the articles of Holy Church would be blessed and placed upon the altar, the choir filled with song, prayers offered and accepted by God—and God himself would no longer be a distant tingle of breath, a whispered promise, a sigh upon the wind. Harold’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Left. Right. Tap. Tap. The sound reverberated through the chancel arches, down into the nave, through the enclosure of the choir. Bouncing off the walls, flying up to those rafters that soared high, as high as heaven.

Wine and water would be sprinkled over the altar while blessings were intoned and the chanting of the Benedictine monks echoed clear and sweet beneath the high vaulted roof. The perfume of incense would permeate through the odour of new-cut stone, timber, mortar and sawdust. As the Christian is baptised and confirmed by water and oil, so the altar of Saint Peter would, on the morrow, be dedicated to the Lord by anointing.

The hand of God would touch Edward’s abbey, but the King himself would not be there to witness the final glory. Edward was too ill to leave his bed, was, beyond doubt, nearing death. Outside in the darkness, the drizzle of rain beat its tedious rhythm on roof and rutted mud alike, Harold sat, wearily leant his forearms across his knees. The quiet, he had thought, might help to sort out his wild-running thoughts. He chewed his lip, tapped the pads of his thumbs together. His idea was not working.

A side door opened and a novice monk, unaware of Harold’s presence, entered and began dowsing the candles. The hour was late and until God dwelt here in His house, economy ordained the saving of tallow. The lad started as he noticed the Earl sitting there, and stammered an apology.

Harold smiled and rose to his feet. “Nay, ’tis I who must beg forgiveness, I ought not to be tarrying here, I came but to see for myself that all was ready. The morrow will be a day long remembered.”

The boy nodded that aye, it would.

Walking back to the north door, Harold paused, staring out at the rain. He would have to cross to the palace soon, seek his chamber, the warmth of his bed. Edyth was awaiting him, but he was unwilling to go to her, to ask for her quiet love, her gentle comfort. This one night, out of all those they had shared together, he did not know how he could face her. She would probably be already sleeping, for the hour was late. Most in the palace would have sought their beds, save those few of importance—the two Earls Eadwine and Morkere and Archbishops Stigand and Ealdred, who would perhaps have remained discussing matters of state between themselves, finishing the jugs of wine and tankards of ale that half an hour or so ago Harold had been sampling with them. He looked across the winter darkness to the palace complex. A crack of light showed through one of the closed shutters of the King’s upper-floor chamber, then flickered as a shadow moved beyond. His doctor, perhaps?

It would not be the Queen, for she had gone to bed to nurse her angry tears almost as evening had fallen. She had spoken few words to Harold this Christmas—all of them harsh and uncompromising accusation. He snorted disdain. Did she care about Edward? Had she ever cared? Edyth had said this morning that his sister was hiding behind her fear, that were she to think about the King, then the reality of her coming loss would be too much to bear. Instead, she was wallowing in grief for their brother Tostig. Harold had not disillusioned Edyth by telling her that he knew his sister better. She grieved for the impending loss of her sovereign status, for the fact that Tostig had let her down—and she blamed everyone for their joint downfall save herself and Tostig. He sympathised with her, but Edith could not remain Queen. Her calculated greed, placed so implacably above the good of England and its peoples, had made that an impossibility.

***

Edyth was not asleep. She sat on a cushion before the floor brazier, her feet and legs curled beneath her, a bed fur thrown over her shoulders to give extra warmth. She had been combing her hair, but she had ceased, was sitting, staring into the red glow of the charcoal, her mind miles distant.

From the first she had expected that one day she would lose Harold to another wife. Yet as the years of happiness had rolled by and their love had solidified, she had, despite chiding herself for it, become half convinced that perhaps her assumption had been wrong. That he did not require a noble-born woman to consolidate his position. But that depended on Edgar becoming king after Edward.

Strange that although they had known Edward was old, that death would come upon him sooner rather than later, now that it was here, how much had they all been taken by surprise. The court was numbed and shocked, finding the inevitable difficult to comprehend.

Would she now grow old with Harold? Would they become grey-haired together, sitting reminiscing beside the fire in the winter years? Or was that for this other woman, the one he must take as wife?

Cold, Edyth bundled the fur tighter. Edgar could not be king, he was only thirteen, too young. She closed her eyes, shunned the thoughts that crowded her brain so insistently. Perhaps it would not be so bad if she could share Harold? If he did not entirely set her aside?

A tear, part sadness, tiredness and hopelessness, slithered down her cheek. She did not want to share him, but then, neither could she bear to lose him completely.

Alerted by a sound at the door, she hastily scrubbed at the trail of moisture, set a welcoming smile to her lips, and turned to watch Harold enter their chamber. She scrabbled to her feet, her hands helping to remove his cloak. “Look at you, man, you are wet through! Get those boots and garments off before you catch your death of cold. The bed’s been aired with hot bricks. Get you between the covers. Tsk! What have you been doing—dancing in the puddles?”

“If I had known you were so keen to get me undressed and into bed, I would not have lingered so long.” Harold laughed. He stopped her fingers tugging at a rain-soaked knot in the lacings of his tunic and enfolded them within his own. That small laugh faded. He studied her face, her eyes, her hair. He so loved everything about her. Her fair hair was beginning to streak with lines of silver, but her eyes sparked as intensely blue as they had that first day he had seen her, flush-faced, embarrassed but defiant, within her father’s Hall. He set his hands to either side of her face, tilted her mouth up to his own and put his lips tenderly against hers, his kiss lingering only a moment.

A lamp glowed from the table, the brazier showed red-fired charcoal from within its grate. The heavy, draped wool curtains were drawn three sides around the bed, the wooden shutters tight closed across the windows.

It had to be said. He could put this thing from him for another hour, for the duration of the night, but to what end? It would still be there, come morning, and somehow he did not want to say this thing in the cold impersonal light of day. This was for them to share in private. There would be enough doing in public these next days, weeks, to satisfy a lifetime.

He said matter-of-factly, “I have been asked whether I would be willing to be considered for election as king.” He drew in a steadying breath. Was it then so easy, after all, to make a decision? These thoughts that had rolled and battered in his mind since he had talked with—listened to—those four men in Archbishop Ealdred’s chamber. The indecision, the uncertainty—the rush of excitement. And now his answer had come, without him realising it. The accepting of what he must, what he wanted to, do. “I am willing. After Edward, if the full Council agree to elect me, I will be king.”

The wick of the lamp was burning low, it would gutter soon; more charcoal was needed on the fire. The rain pattered outside, cascading from overflowing gutters, spattering against the closed shutters, drumming on the roof shingles. Ordinary things, ordinary sounds. Nothing in the room had altered, moved or changed shape, yet for Edyth the whole world had just leapt upwards and come down again, subtly, indistinctly, shadow-shifted different.

She licked her lips, lifted her eyes to look into his. Of all the ways to lose him—to a woman, to battle—it was to happen because of a crown. She was to lose him to a more demanding companion than ever a wife would have been. Was to lose him to England.

Her chin tilted, her shoulders set straight, she said, wondering at her composure, “The Council will be fools if they cannot see the worth of such a man as you. I give you my blessing and my loyalty and ask only the one thing of you.” She paused momentarily, a mere heartbeat, to steady her pounding, breaking heart. “I ask that you choose a woman worthy to be your queen.”

Harold made to speak, to protest, but she silenced his words by putting her fingertips to his lips. “Nay, do not deny the truth of what will be. There will be debate, perhaps argument and disagreement, but the Council will elect you, for as all of us in England know, there is no one else to follow Edward at this moment. You will need a queen, a woman with kindred with whom a new-crowned king must ally.” Again she paused, looked briefly down at the wisps of acrid smoke that trailed from the lamp. Then she stretched up and kissed him. “I ask only that you and she be happy, and that you rule well.”

With a small moan, Harold pulled her to him, enfolded her in his arms. He felt as if he were two separate people. One, a man who had been offered the greatest power, the highest accolade. He could not deny that he wanted it. To be in supreme command, to answer to no man, to have his every aye or nay instantly obeyed…but then there was his other self, the man who loved this woman who was so desperately trying to hide her tears…A man who wanted only the laughter of his family, the comfort of his home, the pleasure of being a part of the turn of the seasons on his estate. Ploughing, sowing, harvest. The endless renewal of life. There would be no more of his manor at Waltham Abbey, for he would reside at Westminster, Gloucester, Oxford or Winchester—any and all of the royal manors in between. There would be no more of Edyth.

“I would that I could have both!” he groaned, burying his face in her hair, breathing in her perfume, her life, her being. Lifting her, he carried her to the bed. This night, perhaps this very last night, he would allow his damned fool inner self free rein. Tomorrow or the next day, when time ran out for Edward, he would need to be the other man, the one who would be king.

For this night, he would be nothing more than a husband to the woman he loved.

Westminster—January 1066

The fifth day of January. For the first occasion in many a week, the sky had cleared and brightened from the misery of rain into the vivid blue of clear winter sky. There was a nip of frost to the air, the sun was low, eye-dazzling, glittering through the diamond-bright grass and reeds.

Throughout the short hours of daylight Edward’s breath rattled in his chest, incoherent words flowing from his blue-tinged lips. As the sun set, burning gold over the Thames marshes, the temperature dropped to below freezing. Come morning, there would be a white crust riming the edge of the river, the courtyards would be a film of treacherous ice.

Edith was at his feet, attempting to rub some feeling of heat into them. Earl Harold stood, wrapped in his own thoughts, beside the brazier, absently adding more charcoal. By Edward’s bedside stood the King’s personal priest, Robert fitz Wimarch, the Archbishops Stigand and Ealdred and his doctor, Abbot Baldwin.

“I like not this dishumour,” Baldwin muttered, laying his fingers on his king’s feverish temple and shaking his head in resignation. There was nothing more he could do for the dying man.

Stigand bent over the bed, shaking Edward’s shoulder with anxious temerity. “My Lord King, wake up. My Lord, please rouse yourself!”

Edward’s eyelids fluttered, then, for a long moment, he lay still, quite silent, the breath caught in his throat. Suddenly his eyes flashed open and he recognised Stigand leaning over him. His eyes wide and fevered, within a skeleton-like, translucent face, Edward stared into the startled face of the Archbishop.

“I am for God,” the King croaked. “I have no fear of meeting Him, I look forward to sitting at His feet. Bury me within my mausoleum, now that it is made ready for my coming.”

Stigand nodded. “There is no need to fear death, for you have served God well and you go to an everlasting life from this transitory one.”

“The succession.” Edith hissed. “Quickly man! While he is lucid, ask him of my brother and the succession!”

Harold, remaining beside the brazier with arms folded, had to admit his sister was resolute.

Either Stigand deliberately misunderstood his queen, or had no intention of mentioning Tostig’s enforced exile from England, a subject that could upset the King mortally. Whichever the Archbishop held the monarch’s bone-thin fingers and said, “We are here, my Lord Edward. Your beloved wife Edith and Earl Harold be at your side.”

“No, no. Tostig, remind him of Tostig!” Edith brushed Stigand aside and took her husband’s hand earnestly within her own.

Irritated but unable to retaliate, Stigand curtly beckoned Harold to come to the bedside. With reluctance, Harold complied. It did not seem possible that Edward was actually dying, that so much was going to change from this day forward. As a king he had fallen short of expectation, was, Harold had to admit, almost as useless as Æthelred had been, yet unlike his father, the people loved Edward. For his unstinting care and concern for the well-being of the common folk he could not be faulted. In affection, Harold had never felt anything but amicable indifference—neither liking nor disliking him. There were things he admired about Edward, others he despised, but that was so of any man. None save Christ himself was perfect.

Edith glowered at Harold, furious that he had not demanded Edward reinstate their brother as earl, or, in protest at the gross insult to the Godwinessons, gone into exile with him. As they had all those years past when their father stood accused of treason.

Harold had tried explaining to her the difference between the charge against Godwine and that against Tostig but she had adamantly refused to listen to sense and reason, too wrapped in her own fears and disappointment to recognise the truth. Perhaps a more astute king would have made a move against the trouble brewing in the North before it came to the boil, would have urged caution or removed Tostig from office before it had been too late—but Edward was not a wise man. What was woven could not be unravelled.

Harold sighed with regret for what might have been. He supposed there was room inside the hearts of some men for one area of excellence only. For Edward, it had been in his worship of God and the building of so splendid an abbey. He stared at the sunken face beneath the white, silken beard, the blue eyes that sparkled, not with a zest for life, but from the heat of fever,
ðæt wæs göd cyning
—he was a good king. Harold sighed again. He could not deny Edward that epitaph, though it was not the full truth. It was not of his fault that he had made errors of judgement along his way, that he had been weak where he ought to have been strong. Edward had not wanted the weighty responsibility of a crown. He should have been an abbot, an archbishop; in that sphere he would have warranted
ðæt wæs göd
.

“There is much I need say!” Edward rasped. “I would have my household around me.” He glanced fretfully at those few occupants of the room. Harold nodded to fitz Wimarch who went immediately to the door.

They were waiting below, the members of the Council and other men of importance who had served the King. Were waiting for a summons, or to hear that their king was no more.

In silence, save for the noise of their boots treading upon the stone stair and brushing through the fresh-spread rushes, they filed in one behind the other to encircle the King’s bed. He had asked to sit up and Robert fitz Wimarch stood behind him, tears blurring his eyes, supporting the frail old man.

“I had a dream,” Edward said, his voice clearer than it had been for many a day. “I saw two monks whom I knew well while I was in Normandy and who passed into God’s safe hands many years ago. They told me of the evils of the men around me, of my earls, my bishops and my clerics. They told me in this dream, that unless I warned you to repent and bow your heads in shame before God there would come evil to my kingdom, that the land would be ravaged and torn asunder by the wrath of God.”

“That is indeed a vision of warning, my Lord King.” Stigand said with grave concern, making the sign of the cross as he spoke.

Agreeing, Ealdred of York nodded his head. “There is evil intent in all mankind and unless we humble ourselves before God we shall all face His anger.” He glanced meaningfully at Edith. “Men and women must serve God, and the chosen king, as they are commanded.”

Satisfied that his archbishops could be trusted to do their best to save the tormented souls of men, Edward spoke, with a dignified clarity, the words of the
verba novissima
, the will declared aloud on the deathbed, naming lands and gifts that were to go to those who had served him well. He spoke of the loyalty that his wife had shown him and said that like a daughter had he loved her. He smiled up at her, begging her not to weep. “I go to God. May He bless and protect you.”

In vain, Edith had attempted to sniffle back the flood of tears, but now gave in to her despair. She had not thought that she had felt anything for Edward, had simply endured his presence, his whining and pathetic weaknesses, but suddenly, now that she was to lose him, Edith realised that she looked upon him, this man who was three and twenty years her senior, as a father. Did she love him? She did not know, but she would, without doubt, miss him. She let the tears fall.

Similar tears were pricking in the eyes of them all. Some fell to their knees, others bowed their heads. Nearly all murmured the prayer of the Lord.

“Sir,” Stigand said softly, again leaning nearer to Edward, who had closed his eyes. “We would know your last wish. Would know who it is you would commend to follow you.”

Edward’s eyes opened. He attempted a weak smile at his Archbishop of Canterbury, fluttered his left hand towards Harold, who took it, absently rubbing his thumb over the taut surface of the proud-standing knuckles.

“My Earl of Wessex.” Tiredness was creeping over Edward; his words came with difficulty. He allowed his eyes to droop closed once more, his hand fall limp within Harold’s. “I commend my wife’s protection to you.”

Energy drained, his body slumped against the supporting arms of fitz Wimarch, the breath catching with an indrawn choke in his chest. The effort of putting thought and speech together had taken everything from him. “Leave, me,” he gasped. “I would make my confession.”

***

They left Edward’s chamber, quiet and subdued. Another death was a sober reminder that an end must come, eventually, for all who were born and breathed.

Only the King’s doctor and priest remained, and Edith. She knew the rest would go to the Council chamber to discuss the practicalities of her husband’s death—the funeral, the succession. Tears and breath juddered from her. All of it had been so pointless, so utterly and completely pointless! Oh, if only Tostig had not been so damned stupid. If only Harold had supported him. If only Edward were not to die…if only, if only. Where did those pathetically useless words end? If only Edward had been a husband to her, if only she had borne a child…

The murmur of conversation was low within the Council chamber, flickering in unison with the dance of the candle flames. All but a few of the Witan were present. Nine and thirty men. Two Archbishops: Stigand of Canterbury and Ealdred of York. The bishops of London, Hereford, Exeter, Wells, Lichfield and Durham; among the abbots, the houses of Peterborough, Bath and Evesham. Shire reeves and thegns—Ralf, Esgar, Eadnoth, Bondi, Wigod and Æthelnoth among others; the royal clerics, Osbern, Peter and Robert; Regenbald the King’s chancellor…and the five earls of England: Harold, his brothers Leofwine and Gyrth, and Eadwine and Morkere. They talked of the morrow’s expected weather, the succulence of the meat served for dinner, the ship that had so unexpectedly sunk in mid-river that very morning. Anything and everything unrelated to the difficulties that lay ahead in these next few hours and days.

Archbishop Ealdred exchanged a glance with Stigand, who nodded agreement. He stood and cleared his throat. “My lords, gentlemen, we must, however hard it be for us, discuss what we most fervently would have hoped not yet to have to.”

The light talk faded, grim faces turned to him, men settled themselves on benches or stools, a few remained standing.

“It is doubted that Edward will survive this night. It is our duty, our responsibility, to choose the man who is to take up his crown. I put it to you, the Council of England, to decide our next king.” Then Ealdred folded his robes around him and sat.

Those present were suddenly animated; opinions rose and fell like a stick of wood bobbing about on an incoming tide. Only two names were on their lips: Edgar the boy ætheling, and Harold.

The two in question sat quiet, on opposite sides of the chamber: one still asking himself if this was what he wanted; the other, bewildered and blear-eyed from the lateness of the hour. He had never before been summoned to attend the Council. It was not a thing for a boy, this was the world of men, of warlords and leaders. He was not much impressed by it.

Edgar looked from one to another, listened to snatches of the talk. He had been immersed in a game of
taefl
with his best friend—had been winning. One more move…and they had come, fetched him away, curse it! Sigurd always won at
taefl
; it had been Edgar’s big moment, his one chance to get even…

For an hour they debated, the hour-candle burning lower as the discussion ebbed and flowed. Occasionally someone would toss out a sharp question to the boy or Harold, seeking opinions, assurance. Edgar answered as well he could, Harold with patient politeness.

Midnight was approaching; servants had come and replaced the hour candle with a new one. The same words passed around and around.

“As I see things.” Archbishop Stigand said, his voice pitched to drown the rattle of debate, “we have talked of but the two contenders. Edgar?” He beckoned the lad forward. He came hesitantly, not much caring for this direct focus of attention for he was a shy lad.

Stigand continued, not noticing the boy’s reluctance. If Edgar were elected king it would make no difference that the lad did not want the title. To be king was a thing ordained and sanctioned by God, personal preference did not come into it. “He is of the blood, but not of age. Second, Harold of Wessex.” Again the Archbishop paused to motion the man forward. “He has ruled England on Edward’s behalf these past many years and has proven himself a wise and capable man. But there is a third possibility. Duke William may claim the crown through the Lady, Queen Emma, and through some misguided impression that Edward once offered him the title.”

Immediately there were mutterings, shaking of heads, tutting. Uneducated foreigners, especially Norman dukes, it seemed, were unanimously declared as not understanding the civilised ways of the English.

Stigand half smiled, said, “I take it, then, that William is excluded from the voting?”

“Aye.”

“That he is!”

“Damned impudence, if you ask me.”

“Does he think we would stoop so low as to elect a king who could not sign his own name?”

The clerk at his table to one side was scribbling hastily, attempting to write down as many of the comments as he could; the records would be rewritten later in neat script, the irrelevancies deleted, the gist of the proceedings tailored to fit the Church-kept—and censored—chronicle.

“Duke William cannot be so easily dismissed,” Harold interrupted. He waited for the babble of voices to quieten. “The Duke will not heed anything said in this room. If he has set his mind on wearing a crown then he will come and attempt to take it, I have no doubt of that. If he is rejected here in this Council, the question, my lords, will not be if or how or can he attack us, but when.”

“But he may be satisfied knowing a grandson of his was to hold England.” The Chancellor, Regenbald, spoke up, “You are to wed his daughter, does that not adequately relieve the situation?”

Aye, they were all agreed, it did. All except Harold.

He stood beside Stigand, saying nothing more. It was not his place to influence Council, but it was difficult to keep his tongue silent with some of these more inane remarks. Duke William looked at things as if through thick-blown glass, his view distorted to match his own expectations. Besides, to placate William with an alliance of marriage presupposed that Harold would be elected king, and they had not, yet, done so.