"No," shrugged the count. "When banditry becomes as vast as his, men name it conquest."
Duke William received Harold and Wulfnoth honorably. "God be praised I have been able to rescue you from such foulness," he said. "Now you must come be my guests for as long as you will."
Harold looked out toward the channel. Seas stamped and snorted under a sweep of cloud. "I have much to do at home," he said.
"Well I know it, my friend," answered William heartily. "Every man understands that you are the pilot in England. But the more reason to rest awhile. I'd not let you venture forth in weather as ugly as this."
They stood for a moment, taking each other's measure. Harold was a handsome man, strongly built and lithely made, with sharp clean-shaven features and bright gray eyes. He was still shabby from his imprisonment, but wore his garments jauntily, and his brown hair fell combed past his ears. Having traveled abroad, and being no stranger to books, he spoke French easily, as well as Latin and several other tongues. Men said he was as guileful as he was gallant.
William was plainly clad for so mighty a lord—a stoutly built man of middle height with square and powerful hands, and a blunt visage gashed by a wide mouth, its cheeks made blue by crowding hair roots. His hair was straight and reddish black, cut around the crown and shaven below and behind in the Norman manner. His eyes were ice pale. He was renowned as the most ruthless of warriors, and had also a name for guile.
They rode together to his castle at Eu, young Wulfnoth and the English seamen accompanying them. Its walls were of gray stone, and after the wealth to which Harold was accustomed, the interior was gaunt. Nonetheless William gave his guests a kingly welcome, rich gifts and lavish feasts. His beautiful wife, Mathilda of Flanders, seemed much taken with Earl Harold.
The English chief was unsure whether or not he was caught in a worse trap than the Ponthieu dungeon. But it was good to lie back at ease while winter whooped outside; it was good to rest from care. In his forty-two years, he had had little surcease. Here, amidst the wining, hawking, and jousts, minstrels and eager young women, he felt almost a boy again. The year waned and the new springtime came while William guested Harold. Now and then the earl spoke of returning, but his host always put him off with some excuse or other.
On an evening shortly before Lent, the two men and Mathilda were sitting up late in the main hall, as was often their custom. "It's past time I went back to England," said Harold. "I've too much to do."
William's countenance jutted out of the dark. "It seems me strange that you bear all the cares of kingship, and yet have not the crown," he murmured.
"God forbid I should say aught against Edward the Good," exclaimed Harold. "The man is a saint."
"But these are not times in which a saint rules well," answered William. He grinned. "As for me, I tossed my liege lord the French king out of Normandy long ago. Twice, in fact. But look you, friend, this is a troublous age. I have word of what goes on in your realm. Your brother Tosti is not liked, and the sons of Alfgar jostle and scheme for power. You face threats from abroad: the Danes may come back, though King Svein is your kinsman; and now that he has made peace there, Harald Hard-counsel of Norway looks for fresh booty. What if one of your English lords should make common cause with him?"
"That is as God wills," said Harold. "But you yourself have just shown me good reason for my speedy return."
William turned the signet ring on his finger, staring at it. "Have you not thought of looking for allies yourself?" he asked. "I must say it was not well done of you to throw King Edward's Norman friends out of the land. That was a mistake which may cost you dear."
Harold's fingertips tightened a little on the arms of his seat. "No offense was meant to you, Duke," he said slowly, "but England must remain English."
William's gaze lifted, to clash against his. "Edward, son of Aethelred, has promised I will succeed him," he spoke. "All men know that. And Edward is not one to break a vow."
Harold's teeth caught at his lower lip. "By old law and right, the English crown lies in no man's gift," he said. "Only the Witanagemot, the great council, and the folk themselves may give it. This too is known to all men."
"Yet the council will follow your word, Earl Harold. It was best that you stood by sworn promises. England and Normandy together could laugh at foes, and your honors would not be small."
"I could take no vows on other men's behalf," said Harold at once.
William nodded. "Well, think on it, I pray you. If you have so much care for the English people, you will not wish to loose the wrath of God and men on them."
He yawned then and bade good night, for he was an early riser. Harold felt drawn too tight to sleep; he remained where he was with Mathilda near him. This they had often done.
"It seems me your lord was somewhat angered," said Harold at last. "I would be sorry if he thought me ungrateful."
"He is a hasty man," answered Mathilda. "But he is not to be swerved from his path, once it is taken."
Harold crossed himself. Mathilda arched her brows and asked him what he thought.
"Of trouble," he said gloomily. "Let us not chop words, my lady; your lord does not mean to let me go until I have sworn to that which I cannot do."
"He means you well," she said. "His will toward you is better than you think. There has been talk between us. . . ."
"Yes, my lady?"
"Our daughter Agatha is but a child as yet. Still, a good betrothal could be made for her."
Harold's eyes widened. He thought of Edith Swan-neck his leman, and their children, and the fair dales of England. He thought of a crown.
"It were well to join two great houses," he said at last.
When Easter had gone, Harold aided William in a short but bloody war against Count Conan of Brittany. Wulfnoth said when they were alone: "You do ill, brother. It was not your way of old to strengthen enemies, or to betray friends."
"Be still." Harold's eyes shifted nervously. "Someone might hear. Can you not see, I am buying our way home? If I fight this war, and betroth his daughter, he must think me true to him. Once across the channel ..."
The boy's face broke into a sunrise.
At length came the time when Harold was busking himself to return. Word from England was that King Edward grew weaker every day and that the northern shires grumbled against Tosti. There could be no dawdling now. William provided ships and escort.
"But first," he said smiling, "we must hold the betrothal feast, and take our own vows."
Harold's heart stumbled. "What mean you?"
"Why, my friend," said William blandly, "it's but a matter of form, since I know you are so well disposed to us. It is but that you openly confirm King Edward's promise."
He stood thick and heavy, mouth creased upward, one hand on his hip and the other spread a little in a careless gesture. But his eyes were chips of ice, and armed guards were near.
"Yes. . . ." Harold swallowed. "So be it."
Before the bishops and the barons, before William and his sword, Harold laid hand on a consecrated jewel and called God and the saints to witness that he would support William's claim and also give Dover castle to the Normans; for this he should have Agatha to wife and become second man in England. He had not slept the night before, his head felt hollow, and it surprised him that his voice should come steady.
William's half brother, Bishop Odo the crafty, let the golden cloth on which the jewel rested be drawn aside. No table was beneath, but a casket, and when it was opened men saw it full of bones.
"These are the relics of many saints," said Odo. "It's a mighty oath you've sworn."
Harold stepped back. A skull stared eyelessly up at him. He could only feebly protest William's demand for Wulfnoth as a hostage . . . merely pro forma, of course.
"Let it be so," the boy told him quietly.
"He will be as a son to me," said the duke. "No honorable man has aught to fear."
Like one emptied of heart and brain, Harold took the betro
thal vows with Agatha. She was a sweet and gentle child, flushed with a happiness she scarce understood. He spoke kindly to her at the feast that night.
And the next morning he sailed for England.
2
When Tosti heard the news, his sallow face flushed dark. "Then you've sold the realm to save your skin!" he cried.
"No," said Harold. A grimness had come over him. "A forced oath is no oath. Alfred the Great laid down that law, and the Church holds to it as well. Had I not done this thing, I would still be rotting in Normandy, and England would fall apart."
"Instead, you sold Wulfnoth," sneered Tosti.
"We were both undone," said Harold. "Now that I'm free, we can work to rescue him. What other chance had we?"
"Have you become so vainglorious that you think yourself the only man to save England? God's bones, you've played us all false in your greed!"
"Speak not to me of bones," said Harold, white faced. "You are the one whose drunken misrule is like to tear the north country from us."
Tosti snarled and turned away.
Harold threw himself into work, seeking forgetfulness. He went into Wales, where he subdued the region around Portskeweth and had a great hall built. It was his thought to invite King Edward thither for the hunting, which was good, and thus win back his lord's favor. But scarce was it finished when Caradoc ap Griffin swept vengefully from the hills, a host at his back, slew the English workers, and plundered it. Harold thought this an evil omen, but clamped teeth together. At least Bishop Wulfstan had absolved him of his oath; now let hell itself come against him, he meant to do battle for his right.
Summer waned, hay and grain were brought in, cattle lowed across smoky blue hills. It was soon after Michaelmas that messengers came galloping to Earl Harold and gasped out their story.
The thanes of Northumberland and Yorkshire had had enough of Tosti's heartless reeve. They had met and solemnly proclaimed the earl an outlaw; then they went to York, where they slew all of his household men they could catch, both English and Danish, and sacked the halls. Thereafter they sent for Alfgar's son Morkar to be their earl, and he rode gladly to meet them.
"And now they are moving south. Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, and Lincolnshire rally to them. They'll split the realm in twain if they have not their will."
"Rouse my housecarles," said Harold. "We ride at once."
He sped north, thinking bitterly that Tosti sat at Britford with the king and made no move to right matters. "Easy it is for him to call me craven for what was done in Normandy," he said. Only the roll of hoofbeats answered him.
At Northampton he met the rebels, a huge and sullen host. Morkar's brother Edwin had joined them with his own levy, and the countryside smoked from their looting. They made way for Harold. Some even cheered him, as he dismounted before the house where the Alfgarssons were staying.
They gave him a cold welcome. They were both tall, slender men with the long bony face of their father, years younger than Harold but already renowned warriors. The earl plunged into talk the moment he was seated.
"Ill is this," he told them. "You rise against God's anointed, and set Englishmen at the throat of Englishmen, at a time when half the world lusts to rule us,"
"We give our duty to the king," said Morkar sharply. "Not to the house of Godwin."
"The king himself gave Tosti earldom in the North."
"Which was our father's by right," said Edwin. "He is no earl who robs and kills his own folk. We seek but justice,"
Harold waved a hand at the door. "I saw burned garths and slain yeomen. Call you that justice?"
"Our folk are wrathful and wild," said Morkar. "Can you blame them? You know not how they have groaned and feared for their lives."
Harold stared at his lap. There would be no turning these bleak young men without battle; and civil war would leave England open for the first enemy that came.
"In God's name, let us have a reconciliation," he said. "1 myself will go between you and Tosti and the king."
"There can be no peace with Tosti," said Morkar. "He himself has robbed God—churches and abbeys and holy men; he has bereaved the folk over whom he had power of life and land. We would ourselves be slain by our men if we accepted less than outlawry for him."
They spoke at length, and with heat; finally Harold yielded, and went to seek King Edward. Meanwhile another great council met at Oxford; weapons were rattling too close to London.
"Yes ... yes ... let them have their way. . . ." The king fingered a crucifix; it trembled in his thin grasp. "God help us, we can do naught else. Let Knut's law be renewed in Northumbria, and— and—"
The Oxford Witan heard out Harold's last attempt to mitigate, but their judgment was foregone. Tosti Godwinsson was declared outlaw, granted short time to depart lest his life as well as his lands be forfeit. Morkar would go to York as earl, and Edwin would dwell nearby to aid him. When the northern men heard that, they raised a shout which sent rooks whirling aloft from the housetops.
Harold sought out his brother. As he came in, Tosti spat and said: "Sweyn, Wulfnoth, and now me! You work fast to rid yourself of us."
"Peace," said the earl. He sank wearily into a chair. "I strove for you."
"With your tongue bulging out your cheek!" Tosti threw back his long hair. "Oh, cunningly have you wrought, my dear sib. But perhaps you have already made one betrayal too many."
"Be less rash," advised Harold. "Bide your time, and I shall work to have you inlawed again. 1 know you are hasty, but do not do that which would make it forever impossible to get you home."
"When I come home," said Tosti, "it shall not be to kiss the foot of King Harold. My wife and children have wept. I will not forgive those Northumbrian clods for that."
Harold rose. "I see I'm unwelcome." He sighed. "If you forget all else, Tosti, remember that England is greater than any one man."
"Save Harold Godwinsson?" Tosti turned his back.
In a wild November gale, the outlaw departed with his family and several ships of friends ... for he could be charming enough to make some men die for him. It took skill to cross the narrow seas in such weather, but he reached Flanders unscathed. Count Baldwin received him well, and he spent the winter at St. Omer's. It was no small treasure he had carried along. He used it to hire bold men who would spy and speak and fight.
3
Everyone could see that King Edward was sinking fast. Almost no flesh remained on him; it was as if the naked soul shone out between his bones. He had scant strength, but a quiet cheer lit his face. Very tired, longing only to go home to his God, he found naught left to do on earth but finish the great abbey church he was building in Westminster.
Edwin Alfgarsson visited Earl Harold in Wessex.
They spoke carefully of small matters for a while, sitting before a crackle of fire; an early snow drifted down outside. Then Edwin took the word.
"I fear our good king will not be with us next Easter."
"God grant him many more years," said Harold, dutifully but without much fervor.
"No, now . . . you know I wish him no ill. What is wrong with his dying? He'll surely be numbered among the saints. But we worldly men must think on worldly matters."
"And stand together."
"Behind whom? Edgar the Atheling is the last of Alfred's house, and he a sickly child. Can he bear the weight of Norse or Norman?"
Harold regarded him closely. "You have not often echoed my own thoughts," he said.
"I know not how far I echo them now," answered the younger man. "Our houses have not always been friendly. The Witan waver between Edgar's right and England's need. My brother and I would fain be your friends, Harold, yet we know not how far we can trust you. It were foolishness to make you king only to have you turn on us because of Tosti."
"I would not do so," said Harold, checking his temper. "I would need you too much."
"And when the hour of need is past? . . . No, be not angered. Morkar and I have threshed this out, and decid
ed it were best to end old feuds and join our two lines."
"What mean you?" asked Harold, though he could guess.
"Our sister Aldyth was never glad to wed the Welsh king Griffith ap Llewellyn. She could scarce bring herself to mourn him decently when he died. Her mind has ever been kindly toward you. . . ."
England's need, and England's crown, and Edith the fair and gentle. Harold bowed his head. "Let us think on it," he mumbled.
The betrothal feast was held soon afterward.
On Childermas the abbey of Westminster was consecrated, to the glory of God and St. Peter and all God's saints. King Edward was joyous, though he was so weak that he could not be at the service. Folk had swarmed into the town, and the great lords and the Witan were met, but talk was of only one thing and there was scant joy of the Christmas season.
Edward lay as if dead. Now and then he would rouse, but his eyes looked not on this world. A lowering sky pressed down over the whitened earth. On Twelfth Day Eve, word ran through the royal household that the king wrestled death's angel.
Harold, guesting there, was roused by a frightened servant, and pulled on his clothes and hastened across the courtyard. Torches streamed in the early winter gloom; the household folk scurried about knowing not what they did. As he entered the king's house, Harold heard a bell tinkling, and drew back crossing himself in awe; for it was the Host that went before him.
When Edward had received the Wayfaring Bread, the men of the realm entered his bedchamber. His queen, Edith, knelt near her lord's head. Earls and archbishops were on their knees likewise. The child Edgar Atheling was shivering with fear and cold.
Edward lay staring at the canopy. His eyes caught the candlelight in a red gleam, and his wasted frame was utterly still; but they heard his breath labor in and out, the soul fluttering and clawing at its shell.
He spoke at last, a whisper, but it was clear: "God shield the land. For the sins of the people, God's anger is come on us. . . . May He show us His mercy when it pleases Him. . . ." The voice faded.
The Sign of the Raven Page 10
