The roar that rose from the room filled with Norsemen and Saxons was enough to make the timbers shake. Harthacnut nodded his head, his face wreathed in a triumphant smirk. Still holding the tankard, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he slammed the pewter vessel down on the table and waved a serving girl over to refill it, giving her a regal slap on her behind for her troubles. Finally he raised his tankard one more time and said, ‘I give you a—’
His face seemed to collapse before the wedding party’s very eyes. His right eye dropped, and the right side of his mouth twisted downwards in a grotesque, frozen grimace. His arms fell to his sides and dangled there, like puppet limbs whose strings had been cut. For a few seconds he tried to speak, but he could make no sound, and then he fell, as straight and sturdy as a felled oak, face first on to the tabletop.
A sudden, absolute silence fell upon the hall as Harthacnut lay there quite motionless, not breathing. Then the bride screamed and the same awful realisation struck every man and woman at once: the king was dead.
‘He was poisoned,’ said Edward, as he and Godwin rode in the column wending its way through the marshes en route to Winchester, with the carriage carrying the king’s body bringing up the rear. ‘This reminds me very strongly of the death of my cousin Alan of Brittany, a couple of years ago. He dropped dead at a banquet too, very similar circumstances, though he was on campaign, dining with his officers. It’s always been my belief that Ralph de Gacé, my uncle Robert’s bastard son planned the whole thing. I’m absolutely certain he set out to kill everyone between him and that other little bastard, William of Normandy. Succeeded, too.’
Godwin looked across at the man he might soon make into a king. It was hard to see any obvious reason why England should wish Edward to rule her. True, he had one major advantage over his immediate predecessors: he could always be counted upon to be sober. And he obviously had some kind of survival instinct that had kept him alive and well when so many around him were dying. But in other respects he was a disappointment. All those years in Normandy had robbed him of the sheen of wealth and sophistication that he would have acquired had he grown up as a prince in England. His clothes, for example, were the shabby hand-me-downs of a poor relation with no land or wealth of his own.
Not that Edward seemed to care. He’d managed to persuade himself that material display of any kind was sinful. Well, perhaps that went down well with monks and nuns – though they always managed to look after themselves very nicely, in Godwin’s experience – but the people expected to be ruled by someone who looked like a proper king. And the nobles expected a man who could think like a king. Now Godwin set about testing Edward, to see whether he could fulfil that requirement.
‘So you say Ralph killed Brittany because he had something to gain by it?’ he asked.
‘Of course, why else would he do it?’
‘I don’t know . . . hatred, revenge, sheer bloody-minded malice.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Edward said. ‘Alan was quite popular among the Normans, and I have no reason to think that Ralph disliked him on a personal level. Of course, I considered him to be a profoundly vulgar and immoral character. He was responsible enough in his role as Count of Brittany, I suppose, but the things he cared about most were hunting and fornicating.’
‘Most men, not to mention most women, would think well of him for that.’
‘Well I am glad I am not like other men, then.’
‘Quite so . . .’ Godwin murmured. ‘If I follow your logic correctly, whoever murdered Harthacnut, if indeed he was murdered, did it because he sought to gain by the death. Is that right?’
‘Yes, I would say so.’
‘But the person who stood to gain most was you. After all, you can now claim the crown itself. What greater prize is there than that? So did you have King Harthacnut killed?’
Too late, Edward realised that Godwin had been leading him to this conclusion all along. ‘Of course not!’ he blustered. ‘The very suggestion is . . . why, it’s outrageous, and deeply defamatory. I insist you withdraw it at once!’
‘With pleasure,’ said Godwin. ‘I am perfectly content to believe that Harthacnut died from a surfeit of food and drink. Everyone who was there will believe that too, whether it’s true or not, because they saw Harthacnut drink the entire contents of his tankard before he suffered his fatal seizure, and they will reason that if he had been poisoned, he’d have felt the effects after the very first swallow. He certainly wouldn’t have kept on drinking. So that won’t be an issue. The real question is: who will be the next king?’
‘But surely . . .’ There was sudden bemusement in Edward’s voice. ‘I mean to say . . . surely I’m going to be the next king. I should have been king these past twenty-six years.’
‘That may be true, but you weren’t. Canute and his line were. And the only surviving male relative of Canute is young Sven Estridsson, my nephew by marriage . . . My dear wife will certainly be pressing his case, I can assure you.’
‘You won’t be swayed by your wife, will you?’ asked Edward, who found the very idea of having a wife, let alone listening to her, hard to comprehend.
‘If I know what’s good for me, I’ll certainly have to let her have her say, yes. Then you must consider the Danish settlers, who control so much of the country these days. You saw plenty of them at that wedding. They were still loyal to Harthacnut and they’ll naturally look to Estridsson to carry on the line.’
‘But the people will want a true Englishman, born in this country. They will rally to me.’
‘They can do all they like, but none of them have a vote in the Witenagemot. That is where your fate will be decided.’
‘You must get me the crown, Godwin. You must!’
‘It’s not my business to “get” it for anyone,’ said Godwin, wondering if Edward could possibly believe that. ‘It is for my fellow nobles to decide. Of course, I am the senior earl of England, so I suppose I carry a certain influence.’
‘Then for God’s sake use it!’ Edward cried, his voice rising to a pitch of near desperation.
‘Hmm . . . I suppose it would be perfectly reasonable of me to point out that Sven is in Denmark and we don’t want to hang around for another half-year to see whether he will return to England. We wasted long enough waiting for Harthacnut in the months after Canute’s death. We don’t want to go through that again, particularly with Magnus of Norway poised to try to enforce his claim.’
‘What claim has Magnus got? He has no blood tie to Canute’s house or mine.’
‘No, but he has a treaty signed by Harthacnut, while drunk, as usual, saying that Magnus would be his heir if he died without a son of his own.’
‘But I heard that just applied to Denmark.’
‘That’s a matter of debate. Either way, it certainly gives Magnus an excuse to launch an invasion. But it also means we need a king to lead us against Magnus.’
‘I see . . .’ Edward suddenly sounded less enthusiastic.
‘Not all kings have to be warriors. Of course it’s best if the men can see their monarch in the heart of the battle. That was always Canute’s style. And I saw your father in the thick of the fighting on more than one occasion. A figurehead, there on the day of the battle, might well be enough . . . maybe the odd skirmish or two.’
‘And you could persuade the Witenagemot to accept me . . . if Sven stays in Denmark?’
‘Yes, I believe so. But I would hope that you would show regal generosity to one who has served your cause so well. I feel certain that Sven would wish to show his gratitude if I were to decide that I owed it to my family connections to support him. As I said, he is my nephew. It would only be natural.’
‘What do you want?’ Edward asked, all business now.
‘I have seven sons, fine young men every one of them. The two oldest, Sweyn and Harold, ar
e of an age now when they need something to do, and somewhere to do it. I was thinking that Sweyn could have some of the land between my earldom of Wessex and Leofric’s territories in Mercia. I was thinking Berkshire, which borders Oxfordshire, which in turn is neighbours with Gloucestershire, from which his land could run north-west to Herefordshire and south-west to Somerset.’
‘That’s five counties!’
‘Oh, you sound surprised. Too few?’
‘No, most certainly not. And what do you expect me to give Harold?’
‘East Anglia. Harold’s a born warrior. If Magnus or anyone else lands anywhere south of the Wash, Harold will see them off. And if they land north of the Wash, Harold will wait till they reach his land and destroy them there.’
‘Well, that sounds promising. So your price is those two earldoms, then?’
‘And one other thing . . . My eldest daughter, Edith, is a lovely girl. God knows where she got it from, because no one would call her mother beautiful, and I’ve never been known for my good looks either. But she’s a stunning lass, and educated, too. She can read and write as well as a monk. She writes Latin prose and poems and I’m sure they’re damn good, though I can’t understand a word of them. And if her own dam’s anything to go by, she’ll have no trouble giving you fine, healthy sons on a yearly basis.’
‘So . . . what? You wish me to find her a husband?’
‘No, I wish you to be her husband. Take it from me, you won’t find a better wife anywhere.’
‘Wife?’ said Edward, as the blood drained from his face.
‘Yes. We’ve had two kings die without an heir to succeed them. We can’t afford a third.’
Edward swallowed hard, breathed deeply and sat up straight in his saddle. ‘Very well, I accept your terms. Your sons shall have their earldoms and your daughter shall have me for a husband.’
‘In that case, sire,’ Godwin said, ‘I will be honoured to make you my king.’
6
Rouen
Across the water in Normandy, the man whom Edward had rightly deduced to have plotted the killings that robbed William of his guardians was enjoying the fruits of his machinations. Ralph de Gacé was the unofficial but universally acknowledged power in the land. And like all wise leaders, he took care to make occasional, but very visible, gestures of goodwill to the people on whose support his position depended.
On this occasion, for example, a troupe of travelling entertainers had arrived in Rouen – a minstrel, a bawdy comic poet, an animal trainer with his dancing bear, a quartet of acrobats (including a pair of particularly comely maidens) and a strongman – and Ralph had invited them to perform for the court in the great hall of the ducal palace one night after dinner. Of course, William still sat at the centre of the high table, but it was Ralph who stood up when the tables had been cleared of food and made a short speech welcoming ‘the jongleurs, tumblers, wild animals . . . and of course that charming bear’, inviting them to display their skills and encouraging the audience to applaud them warmly.
Tables were pushed aside to create space for the performers, who duly displayed their skills and, in the case of the two maidens, far more of their ripe young bodies than any respectable woman would ever dare reveal. Ralph led the applause. Talou volunteered when the magician asked for someone to come forward from the audience, and was amazed to discover that three gold coins had been removed from his purse – which remained at all times hanging from his belt, in full public view – and replaced by three slices of carrot.
William, meanwhile, found himself rendered mute and invisible, as if he were not actually there. The one time Ralph de Gacé spoke to him was when he leaned over just before the poet was about to start his epic tale of the love affair between Samson and Delilah and said, ‘It’s getting late, William, everyone’s had a great deal to drink and if I know anything about wandering poets, things are about to get rowdy. Perhaps it might be best if you retired.’
‘No,’ said William, and glared at de Gacé, daring him to try to overrule him.
‘Very well, as you wish,’ and de Gacé turned back towards the poet and with a jaunty wave of the hand signalled that he should begin.
Sure enough, the poem was scabrously filthy, shockingly blasphemous and wildly funny. It brought the house down, and William was lifted from his bad mood, laughing along with everyone else and banging the table with the flat of his hand as he joined in the calls of ‘More! More!’
Yet he still felt more like an anonymous guest than the master of the house, and the frustration ate at him. He wanted to impose himself upon events in some way, to be seen as a duke rather than a mere adolescent. And then he saw his opportunity.
Having bent iron bars, lifted great barrels of wine and bitten through thick leather belts, the strongman, who called himself Brutus the Great, had sat himself down at one end of a long table and placed a gold coin in front of him, promising the coin to anyone who could beat him at arm wrestling. He was a giant of a man, dressed only in breeches so that everyone could see that he had arms thicker than any normal man’s thighs, a torso like a castle keep, great slabs of tightly bunched muscle and a back that was almost as thickly covered in wiry black hair as the bear’s.
‘Roll up, roll up!’ Brutus shouted. ‘And I’ll even let the other man push first.’
One after another, the heftiest members of the household, from the sergeant of the guard to the palace blacksmith, duly stepped forward to the raucous cheers of their friends. With crushing inevitability, every single contender had his arm forced down and his knuckles slammed against the tabletop as the suddenly mocking jeers of the crowd echoed from the hall’s high stone walls.
Finally, after a dozen men or more had walked back from the table rubbing their biceps or nursing their crushed right hands, there came a point when no one else was willing to put himself through such obvious and futile torture.
‘Come on!’ Brutus encouraged them. ‘There must be one more man here brave enough to try his luck!’
Clearly there wasn’t, because an embarrassed silence, punctuated by coughs and shuffling feet, descended on the hall. Having been so willing to make themselves the centre of attention and admiration before, neither de Gacé nor Talou felt any need to make a spectacle of themselves again.
‘Very well then,’ said Brutus, with a shake of his head. He picked up the coin in one of his huge furry paws and was about to get up from the table when William rose to his feet.
All eyes turned towards the duke, who had presumably stood to congratulate the strongman and commiserate with his victims. But those were not William’s intentions.
‘I’ll take you on, Master Brutus. Why don’t you try your luck with me?’ he called out, loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear.
A great burst of laughter and applause broke out. The lad had a nerve. Three months shy of his fifteenth birthday, and he was challenging a mighty strongman. ‘Go easy on him, he’s only a lad!’ someone called out, and Brutus grinned and called back, ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll send him away in one piece!’
As William pushed back his chair, about to step down from the dais, de Gacé reached up and grabbed his sleeve. ‘Don’t!’ he hissed. ‘You’ll only make a fool of yourself!’
William brushed the hand away and marched towards the strongman.
‘The pup looks like he means business,’ Talou muttered to de Gacé, and William’s face did indeed bear the fixed, tight-jawed determination of a warrior going into battle, rather than the cheeky grin of a young lad trying his luck.
Brutus, however, was all smiles as he placed his elbow on the table. ‘Sit down here, my lord, and let’s see what you’re made of.’
William said nothing. He betrayed not a flicker of emotion as he fixed his eyes on the strongman and let his hand be swallowed up in his massive fist.
‘Ready?’ Brutus
asked.
William nodded. He felt the strongman’s grip tighten around his hand and almost winced in pain. He did his very best to push, but the other man’s arm did not budge. A force more powerful than any he had ever known bore down upon his arm as Brutus took the strain and pushed back so hard it felt as if one of the mighty stone pillars that supported the great hall’s gallery had fallen down upon him. William did his best to resist, but it was impossible. He was on the point of conceding defeat when, as if by magic, Brutus gave way and William felt his hand forcing the other man’s down until it touched the table.
He had won.
‘Well I never!’ Brutus shouted as wild applause broke out around them. ‘Your young master’s my master too.’
Still William said nothing. His expression did not change. He waited until the noise had died down, then raised a hand for silence and, being sure to make himself heard by everyone, said, ‘Do it again, strongman. And this time give it your best.’
There were gasps of astonishment all around, followed by a hum of excited chatter.
‘Are you sure about this, my lord?’ Brutus asked, speaking low enough to make it a private conversation.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re going to regret it, but no matter,’ Brutus said. He stood up, and intoned in his thunderous voice, ‘Let all here bear witness, I am obeying the duke’s command.’
Every man there, William included, knew what that meant.
Brutus sat back down, put his elbow on the table once again and looked at William. ‘This is going to hurt,’ he said.
Brutus the Great had never lost a fight or a trial of strength in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now. He took another look at Duke William of Normandy, forgetting his rank and considering him dispassionately as an opponent. He was a well-made boy, no doubt about that, and strapping for his age, but still just a boy for all that. He’d been on the point of defeat first time around, before Brutus had pretended to surrender. It would be no trouble to finish him off in an instant this time, without damaging anything other than his lordly pride.
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 25
