Given Edward’s outpouring of grief at Tostig’s betrayal, Harold even wondered if his brother had been the object of Edward’s base desires. Edward had been most fond of the young man, but to what extent? If there had been more than brotherly affection then Tostig was more the bastard than Harold had previously given him credit for. An intimacy of that nature would have been nothing but manipulative fraud on Tostig’s part. Perhaps a more astute king would have urged caution in the North, or removed Tostig from office before it had been too late – but Edward was not a wise man. Ah, what was woven could not, now, be unravelled.
For his own part, Harold had never felt anything but courteous indifference towards Edward, neither liking nor disliking him. There were traits he admired, others he despised, but that was so of any man. None save Christ himself was perfect.
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 his splendid 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 Edward’s 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.
‘There is much I need say!’ Edward rasped. ‘Are my earls and men of import around me?’ He glanced fretfully at the occupants of the room.
Edith bit her lip; perhaps this was it after all? He was to forgive Tostig! ‘They are all here, my dear husband,’ she said, squeezing his hand, forcing a brave smile to her grief-gaunt face.
Satisfied, Edward continued with dignified clarity reciting 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 his wife had shown him, stating that he had loved her like a daughter. He smiled up at her, begging her not to weep. ‘I go to God. May He bless and protect you.’
In vain, Edith attempted to stifle a flood of tears and a conflict of surging emotions. Like a daughter? The silly old fool should have loved me like a wife, like the mother of his children, not like a daughter! She gulped more tears down; all these years she had felt little for Edward, had endured his presence, his whining and pathetic weaknesses, but suddenly, now she was to lose him, realised that she had looked upon him, this man who was three and twenty years her senior, not as a husband, but as a father. Did she love him? No, but she would miss him. Her tears fell.
Similar tears were pricking in the eyes of them all. Some men sank to their knees, others bowed their heads. All gathered there in that hot, fuggy, death-smelling chamber murmured the prayer of the Lord.
‘My lord,’ 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 fluttered his left hand towards Harold. ‘My Earl of Wessex.’ Tiredness was creeping over Edward. ‘I commend my wife’s protection to Harold.’ 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. Death was always a sober reminder that an end must come for all, be they peasant, earl or king. Only Edward’s personal priest remained; with reluctance, Edith went to her bower, grief cutting to her heart. 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. Her life had been so pointless, so utterly and completely pointless! Oh, if only Tostig had not been so stupid! If only Harold had supported him… If only, if only. Where did those useless words end? If only Edward had been a husband to her, had planted his seed within her. If only she had borne a child…
The murmur of conversation was low within the council chamber, flickering in unison with the draught-disturbed 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, royal clerics, the king’s chancellor… and the five Earls of England: Harold, his brothers Leofwine and Gyrth, and Eadwin and Morkere of the North. They talked of the morrow’s expected weather, the succulence of the meat served for dinner, the ship that had unexpectedly sunk in mid-river that very morning. Anything unrelated to the difficulties that lay ahead in these next few hours and days.
Archbishop Ealdred stood and cleared his throat. ‘My lords, we must, no matter that it is hard to do so, discuss what we all shy from.’
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.’ 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 asking himself if this was what he wanted; the other, bewildered and hiding his fear. Edgar had never before been summoned to attend the council. It was not a thing for a boy not yet three and ten years of age, this was the world of men, of warlords and leaders. He looked from one to another, listened to snatches of the talk. Earlier that evening 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 to sit in solemnity in that foul-smelling chamber with a dying man. Curse it! Sigurd always won at taefl; it had been Edgar’s one chance to get even…! He stifled a yawn. Fought against closing his eyes to doze.
For an hour the men debated. Occasionally someone would toss out a sharp question to the boy, who startled awake, or to Harold, seeking opinion, assurance. Edgar answered as well he could. Harold with patient politeness.
The hour of two was approaching; servants had come and replaced the beeswax candles with new ones. The same words were passed around and around.
‘As I see things,’ Stigand said, his voice pitched to drown the rattle of debate, ‘we have talked of but 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 boy.
Stigand continued, not noticing the reluctance. To be king was a thing sanctioned by God, personal feeling did not come into it. ‘He is of the royal 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 of Normandy may claim the crown through the blood-tie of King Edward’s lady mother, Queen Emma – God rest her soul – and through some misguided impression that Edward did once offer him the title.’
Immediately there were mutterings, shaking of heads, tutting. Upstart Norman dukes 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! The man is a bastard-born.’
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 s
cript, 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. ‘He is a bastard in more than birth alone. He will not heed anything said in this room, no matter how scornful or vehement. If he has set his mind on wearing a crown, then he will attempt to take it. If he is rejected, the question will not be if, how, or can he attack us, but when.’
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 with a view distorted to match his own expectations.
The door to the chamber opened, heads turned, speech faded. Abbot Baldwin entered, his expression of grief telling his message. Archbishop Ealdred spoke the words of a prayer. ‘Amen,’ they all murmured.
‘We are agreed, then?’ Stigand said after a pause for reflective silence, ‘Our King, Edward Æthelredson, may he rest at peace, commended his wife, our good Lady Edith, into the care of the Earl of Wessex. It is in my mind, heart and soul that he intended for Harold Godwinson to protect and reign over England.’
There came a murmur of disapproval from Morkere, Tostig’s replacement as Earl of Northumbria.
‘It is in my mind that Earl Harold, once crowned, may restore his brother to favour. I have no intention of relinquishing my earldom to that traitor.’ He spoke plain. His brother, Eadwine, close at his side, nodded. Several thegns and nobles from the north agreed also. A bishop too, Harold noticed.
Harold stepped forward, offering his hand to Morkere. ‘My brother is a jealous fool. I make no secret of the fact that I would rather have him in England, where I can keep an eye on him, but he will never return to Northumbria. You have my sworn word.’
Morkere did not take the proffered hand. ‘Is your word good, my lord Earl? Did you not grant your word – your oath – that you would support William of Normandy in his claim for England?’
An uneasy silence. Harold smiled laconically. Morkere showed signs of becoming a worthy man to hold Northumbria.
‘That oath,’ Harold said, ‘was taken under duress. I am under no obligation to keep it. When I visited Duke William, in all good faith two years past, I was tricked into the choice of losing my honour or my life and freedom, and that of the loyal men with me. There are oaths, and oaths, my friend.’ He nudged his hand further forward, inviting Morkere to take it, still smiling. ‘I made that vow knowing full well that it was more dishonourable for a lord to endanger the lives of those who willingly followed him, than to pledge an oath with no intention of keeping it. I make this one to you, though, with a view to the opposite.’
Aware he had to give some other assurance to convince this rightfully suspicious young man, Harold added, ‘Within our traditional law there is no dishonour in breaking a promise to a man who is himself dishonourable. To those who are worthy ’tis different.’ For a third time he offered his hand. ‘Take my word, Morkere, Tostig will not have Northumbria while I am able to prevent it. I give that unbreakable vow to you, a man I call worthy to receive it.’
Morkere was tempted to look at his brother, seek his opinion, but did not. He was his own man, with his own decisions to make – be they right or wrong.
Decisively, with an abrupt nod of his head, gazing steadily into Harold’s eyes, he set his broad hand into the other man’s. ‘I accept your pledge, my Lord of Wessex.’ Corrected himself. ‘My Lord King.’ There was no need for Morkere to add anything further, for Harold understood the look that accompanied that acceptance from steady, unblinking eyes: God protect you, though, should you break that oath.
Harold stepped back, took a deep breath into his lungs. ‘Before we decide, we should hear from the boy.’ He trundled Edgar forward. ‘Lad, tell us why we should crown you as our king?’
There came a few grumbles complaining of a waste of time, but several more of, ‘Aye, let the boy speak!’
Edgar looked steadily up at Harold, gathering courage. He could say nothing, shrug, walk away, leave the chamber and this kingdom behind him. Instead, as had Harold, he took a deep breath.
‘My grandfather was Edmund, known as Ironside. He was half-brother to the gentle king we have just so sadly lost to God. My grandfather died from mortal wounds inflicted in battle against the Dane, Cnut. For fear of his life by the hands of the new King of England, my father, then but a babe in arms, was taken into exile. He knew no palaces or comforts, had no sumptuous gowns or golden crowns. Instead, he knew the city of Kiev and the lands of Poland and Hungary. He grew, took a wife, had two daughters and a son.’
He paused, looked around at the men steadfastly listening to him. ‘My sister, Margaret, is betrothed to Malcolm of Scotland, she will become a queen one day. My other sister, Cristina, wishes to serve God as a nun. I see her as abbess,’ he paused, smiled, ‘for she is most deft at organising and being bossy.’
The men laughed.
‘Go on,’ Harold murmured.
‘I recall things from my childhood. Hearing the wind moan through the eaves of our rude-built house. Watching the snow fall. My father’s footsteps making deep tracks in the blanketing whiteness as he went out to search for food, and wood for the fire. I recall huddling together at night and my mother burning the furniture to keep us from freezing. I remember the sun of summer days, so hot you could not talk or breathe.’
‘This is all very well, an interesting tale, lad,’ someone said from the back, ‘but it does not make you the stuff of a king.’
Edgar lifted his chin, ‘Does it not? Uncle Edward was not the stuff of being a king when he returned from exile in Normandy. My father, when Harold, here, escorted him – us – home to England would not have made a suitable king either, yet, had he still lived, would we be having this discussion? He would have been king by right of birth. I am his son. I am the last in the blood-line of Cerdic of Wessex, why then, should I not be your king?’
Someone, a bishop, laughed. ‘Mayhap it has to do with you being a mere boy?’
He had found his courage now, and beyond all else Edgar suddenly realised that he wanted that crown. ‘Boys grow into men. I know how to read and write – unlike the Duke of Normandy who cannot sign his own name. I speak more languages, probably than all of you men together in this room.’
‘Aye, lad,’ that was Earl Morkere, ‘but you cannot fight. When William the Bastard comes, England will need to fight.’
Edgar hooked his thumbs through his belt, spread his legs slightly into a stance of authority. ‘Mayhap I do not,’ he answered, ‘but neither did King Edward, yet no one gainsaid his crowning. And is that not what my earls and advisors are for? I would hold the helm, you would sail the ship.’
There came a few ragged cheers, some impressed nods.
‘Add to that, I have, as yet, no betrothed wife. I would send an emissary to broker a marriage between myself and one of Duke William’s daughters. Were he to fight us, there is every chance he could sacrifice all; his duchy, his life. As father of the Queen of England he would have much to gain, and win.’
A few men applauded, more were nodding, agreeing.
‘And last,’ Edgar said, ‘I have one advantage over all of you, including the Duke, and Earl Harold.’ Again, he paused for effect. ‘I know how to survive, and those who know that can be dangerous people – because we know we can do it.’
The chamber erupted into cheering. Harold grinned, knelt at Edgar’s feet, smiled up at him.
‘I offer my services, my lord, I would be proud to be Earl of Wessex for England’s King Edgar.’
Rouen, Normandy, February 1066
The messenger refused to hand the letter sent from England to Duke William. Instead, he sought Fitz Osbern.
‘But this is for the Duke. Why have you bro
ught it to me?’ Fitz Osbern was irritated. Naught had gone right this day – before leaving his bed he had quarrelled with his wife, then he had discovered his favourite hound had been in a fight during the night, sustaining a torn ear and tooth-gouged neck. Added to that, indigestion was burning in his chest – and now this fool was standing there hopping from foot to foot, proffering a parchment that was meant for Duke William. Pah! As if he did not have enough of his own correspondence to see to!
At least the messenger was honest in his reply. ‘My lord, I bring it to you because it contains bad news. I have no intention of being on the receiving end of his temper.’
William Fitz Osbern sat at his table, letters spread before him, a quill pen leaning from the inkwell, shavings from other trimmed quills brushed into a neat pile. He stared at the scrolled parchment in his hand. It was from the Bishop of London. He sighed. Norman administration would be easier were their noble duke able to attend to the reading of charters and letters himself, and if the whole system were not so complicated. The recording of taxable land in England, for example, was much more organised, with everything meticulously written down and recorded in one book within each shire.
‘If it is about King Edward’s health, then we are aware he is failing. We are expecting to hear he is dead.’ Will held the scroll out to the messenger. ‘You have my assurance he will not bark at you for that.’ Mint leaves would be good for his bubbling stomach. Perhaps he ought to send a servant to fetch some?
The messenger took a step backwards, emphatically refusing to take the document. ‘’Tis not the bark that concerns me, ’tis the sharp-toothed bite!’
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