I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  Edward’s pout intensified. If Siward and Leofric had put up more of a fight…oh, curse it, let the damn woman have her way! His head was pounding, he needed wine and the privacy of his chamber. The King flapped his hand at the cleric seated at a table below the dais. “Record the decision. Stigand is to be appointed Bishop of East Anglia.” He brushed the cloak from his shoulders, made to stand, all others in the Hall instantly coming to their feet, save for Emma.

  “Edward,” she said, in the unconsciously supercilious tone that so irritated her son. “We are not yet concluded.” She indicated that he ought to sit; he ignored her, remained pointedly standing, forcing her to rise also. None sat in the presence of a king who was standing, not even a queen, his mother.

  She was a tall woman, Emma, thin of figure and face, her manner and voice austere, with little hint of laughter or gentleness about her features or character. Those qualities normally associated with the women’s side of the hearth had been sapped from her, years past, by the succession of scandals and sorrows she had endured. Standing, erect and proud, her gold coronet reflected the flickering of the many torches set about the walls. The rubies in her necklace sparkled blood-red. “We have yet to discuss the matter of your marriage,” she said. “A king must take a wife, A king must have sons.”

  “A king must rule his people and serve God,” Edward retorted. “I do not wish for a wife.”

  Earl Godwine spoke, placating. “Lord, is it not your duty—”

  Edward rounded on him with venom. “Do not remind me of duty sir! It is you, and the traitors you breed for sons, who need reminding of duty!”

  Godwine, and Harold beside him, both reddened, both unintentionally glanced up at Emma.

  Hurriedly Godwine said, “I am not responsible for my son Swegn. He is earl under your orders, Sire. He acts against Wales in your name.”

  “With an army of men paid for by my mother?” Edward strode towards Emma, his face contorted by rage. “And where will they march, I wonder, when Swegn has finished playing his game of shadow-chasing in the Welsh mist? To East Anglia? To join with this new bishop who is a lick-spit to you—to swell Norway’s army when Magnus comes, at your invitation, to try the fit of my crown?”

  Emma reacted immediately. “Do you seriously think I would prefer one who is not of my own blood as king? For all that our opinions differ, you are my son. Magnus is not.” With practised skill she returned to safer ground. “Is it not wise,” she said, her tone patronising, “to stem the menace that is repeatedly harrying our Welsh borders? Give the Celts free rein and there will be no end to their audacity.”

  Edward conceded the point, but added with a snarl, “I would have preferred to have been consulted.” His mother was the taller by more than a hand-span, he needed to look up to stare into her eyes. “I will let your new-trained lapdog run on his leash, madam, but I warn you, and you, sir.” He spun around to face Godwine, his slender finger pointing accusingly. “I warn you, if Swegn fails to subdue the Welsh, if he wastes the lives of English men and the coin of my treasury, then he and you will reimburse me for his incompetence.”

  Edward departed, stumbling down the dais steps in his haste to leave. Emma sank into her chair, a brief sigh escaping her lips. Her son tired her so. Swegn would not do well in Wales, he was too brash, too angry to plan properly, but she needed men such as he loyal to her, to be indebted to her. Swegn, unlike his father—or his brother Harold—would never be troubled by his conscience. And if Magnus should indeed consider securing England for himself, should cease his drunken boasting and act upon his rumoured threats…? Well, Emma would need the rash, the ambitious—and the indebted—to ensure her own safety. Could she perhaps retain her position of Queen Regent under Magnus? A pity it had to be Swegn who had agreed to be her sworn man at Wilton, not the more reliable and competent father, but Godwine might change his mind if the Vikings decided to come raiding next spring.

  ***

  Edward sank gratefully on to the embracing comfort of his bed, his arm shielding his face. “Fetch me wine, Robert,” he ordered in a frail voice. “I need wine to swill the foul taste of my mother from my mouth.”

  Robert Champart was already pouring, for he well knew how tense Edward would be after yet another confrontation with that wretched woman. He disliked Emma, judged her guilty of the sins of murder, avarice, treachery and, although it had never been proven, adultery. She would be accountable for that, if not to the justice of this world, then most certainly to the final judgement of God.

  For her part, Emma considered Robert, former Abbot of Jumièges, a zealously religious man of middle years, to be arrogant, conceited, hypocritical and repugnantly over-ambitious. There was something suspicious, she felt, about him. Why had he been so eager to leave behind the quiet contemplation of a Norman abbey to become chaplain and confessor to the King of England? Undoubtedly Champart had no intention of remaining in such a humble position for long, not when there was a chance of a bishopric to be filled.

  Robert held the goblet against the king’s dry lips, supporting his sagging body around the shoulders with his other arm. Edward sipped and swallowed, his hand resting lightly over Robert’s, his long white fingers touching the firm strength of his chaplain’s. Their eyes met.

  “Where would I be without you, Robert?” Edward sighed. “You supported me during those long years of exile. Gave me succour and guidance while I was deprived of my rightful kingdom. And you are with me now, when I am in sore need of companionship.”

  Robert desperately wanted to ask who had been awarded the honour of East Anglia. Stigand, he assumed. That God-cursed, sour-faced, obnoxious man, Stigand. Of course it would be he. Emma’s grovelling little runt. Robert had no hope of advancement while she clung so obstinately to her title. She must be toppled; must fall from power! He stroked back the fine, pale hair that had flopped forward over Edward’s pain-furrowed brow, his crooning voice making low, soothing noises.

  Edward exaggerated, of course, but it was not Robert’s position to correct an anointed king. If he cared to believe that Robert Champart had been his confidant and friend throughout his exile, then who was Robert to demur? In truth, they had known each other only eight short years, since Edward had left the household of his uncle, Duke Robert of Normandy. While the Duke had lived, Edward had been safe under his protection. An uncle had nothing to fear from an impoverished nephew, but the situation had changed under an only bastard-born son. A seven-year-old boy, with ducal responsibility thrust prematurely upon him, had everything to fear from men grown; men who could, so easily, relieve him of a duchy. Edward had not felt welcome under the patronage of the boy, William, and had removed himself to the sanctity of the abbey at Jumièges, where Robert was abbot. Their mutual liking was instantaneous, but Robert, an ambitious man, saw all too clearly how he could benefit from friendship with one who could claim the title of king. Robert, for all his dedication to God, had few scruples when it came to pursuing his own advancement.

  A shy young man, Edward had fallen under Robert’s quiet, contemplative spell; he had found, for the first time in his lonely life, sympathy and companionship. Edward, who had not known the love of a mother or the pride of a father, loved Robert.

  Edward had been considering taking monastic vows but, unexpectedly, England had recalled her exiled heir to the throne and Robert had not hesitated to accept the request to accompany him home. Eight years, now, had Robert known Edward, and for eight years had he waited to rid the son of the vile influence of the mother.

  It seemed that Edward slept, for he lay quiet, his chest slowly rising and falling. Carefully, Robert removed the King’s boots, laid a fur over his resting body and murmured a prayer of protection—gasped with surprise as Edward, eyes closed, spoke. Yet it was not the suddenness of the voice that startled Robert, but the words.

  “My mother wishes me to take a wife, but I do not care to be harangued by another woman
’s tongue.”

  Robert paled; sickness rose into his throat. Edward? Take a wife? A wife who would be constantly at Edward’s side, who would influence him, divert his mind? A woman who would negate the necessity for him, Robert, to tend all Edward’s needs? How could Robert tolerate the presence of another dictatorial harridan? Yet, as king, Edward must have his queen. A slow smile played around the corners of Robert’s lips as the initial shock gave ground to sensible thinking. The blood returned to his pallid cheeks and his bouncing heartbeat steadied.

  Had Emma considered this adequately? Had she, at last, made her fatal mistake? She probably had a scheme in mind, but what if Robert could outmanoeuvre her?

  Until a king’s wife was anointed as queen, the dowager retained the title, the power and influence—king’s mothers in the past had taken great care that their daughters-in-law never received the church’s official blessing of anointing. Was that Emma’s intention? To marry Edward to some pale-faced, timid mouse of a girl who would never dare stand up to a woman who adamantly refused to relinquish the title of queen?

  But what if Edward were to take a girl of different character? A girl of courage and ambition—or, if such a child did not exist, then one who had a father with power enough to enforce her rights?

  Robert’s eyes narrowed, a faint smile painted across his lips. It would be annoying to share Edward’s devotion with a woman, but Robert could endure that. The smile widened into an expression of reassurance as the King opened his eyes. “The right woman, my Lord King, could bring you much happiness.”

  Edward’s mouth dropped into a childish pout. He detested women.

  “A wife, Sire, could set you free. She must make certain vows to her husband.” Robert tucked the bed fur more comfortably beneath Edward’s chin. “She must vow to love and honour her lord.” Added pointedly, “And, unlike a mother, must, without question, vow obedience.”

  6

  Bosham

  Countess Gytha was well used to offering hospitality to the king, for his visits to her husband’s Sussex estate were frequent, but on this occasion Edward’s presence was proving difficult. The hunting would be poor, for an early frost lay heavy on the ground, with the stream beyond the manor wall already partially frozen. Ice had wallowed on the edge of the tide this morning, a rind of glistening white around the rim of the bay. Supervising the choice of preserves and joints of meat to provide respectable feasting, Gytha suppressed a churn of tempestuous anger. This embarrassment was Swegn’s doing, damn the boy! When would he assume the responsibilities that ran with his age and position as eldest-born son? When would he recognise the consequences of these fool actions of his? It really was too bad of him to put the family in such an awkward situation!

  Swegn’s disastrous foray into Wales had caused nothing but problems for his father and brothers—and for her, for to the Countess fell the task of soothing a husband’s and a brother’s frayed temper. Edward was obviously deeply affronted by Swegn making alliance with Queen Emma—why else would he come south to Bosham at this time of year? He rarely hunted far from his own manor when the days were short and the weather so inclement. Was it possible to believe that this unexpected visit was nothing more than a whim? Of course not! By the middle of the October month, Swegn had been whipped out of Wales like a runt hound, barely escaping with his skin intact. Gryffydd son of Rhydderch had pissed his breeches laughing at the incompetence of the English, of Godwine’s son, so rumour said. And to make an even greater fool of himself, Swegn had retained the men that Emma had allotted him—those few poor wretches who had made it back across the Severn in one piece, that is. A sensible man would have gone straight to his king, presented them into his service—but, oh no, not Swegn! Gytha, after years of denying it, finally conceded that her first-born had not an ounce of sense to his name.

  “The pork,” she said, pointing to a half-side of salted bacon hanging from one of the many rafters. The storage place of Godwine’s Manor was rectangular, wattle-walled with a low shingle roof, the interior cellar-like, with several wooden steps descending two feet below ground level to a floor of laid slate: thick, hard-wearing slabs that repelled rodents and remained cool even on the warmest of days. An earl such as Godwine was expected to maintain a plentiful store of meat and grain for his household and guests. After the recent harvest—which had, for the sixth consecutive year, proven good throughout Wessex, the containers of preserved fruits and root vegetables were full; cheeses, wrapped in linen, were stacked to ripen and mature; meat of varying cuts was hung, smoked, from hooks, or packed into layers of salt within wooden barrels. “We will have that side of beef also,” the Countess added, thoughtfully surveying the ample stocks, “and this one.”

  “What about these birds, my Lady? They are plump, and have hung an adequate time.”

  Absently Gytha nodded. Cedric was a capable steward who had served her and her husband from the time of their marriage. He did not require supervision—but she had welcomed an excuse to leave the Hall and the sullen-faced presence of King Edward. If he should openly accuse her husband of treachery because of Swegn’s imbecility she would…Gytha sighed, wiped her hands on the square of rough linen that hung around her waist to protect her best gown from dirt and stains. What would she do? What could she do? Very little, apart from appease Edward by providing him with a sumptuous meal and bidding him welcome to Bosham Manor.

  The steward sensed something of his mistress’s apprehension, for he laid a hand on her arm and, smiling, offered reassurance. “Tonight there will be a banquet fit for the King, of that I can assure you.”

  She patted his hand. He was a good, loyal servant. The thought came, unbidden but strident: loyal and faithful…unlike my son.

  All were welcome at Godwine’s table, and the Manor was, as usual, almost full for the serving of the evening meal. Precedence of seating, below the immediate family and especial guests, went to the housecarls, Godwine’s personal, elite body of fighting men: bodyguards, warriors and companions. Earl Godwine they served and no other man, until death released them from the oath of allegiance. In return, an earl undertook to house, feed and clothe these men and their families; it was for him to mount and arm them, to honour them with splendid gifts. When a lord, be he thegn, earl or king, provided generously for his followers’ everyday needs, then he could be sure their courage would not fail when he needed it. A feast was an occasion for giving and receiving together—for getting drunk, an occasion to confirm the loyalty and unity of vassal and lord. This night Godwine’s Hall, high-roofed, sixty feet long and thirty feet wide, was filled to capacity, the usual company swollen by the King and his retinue.

  Godwine, like Gytha, had found it difficult to remain cheerful, but unlike his wife, found no means of escape. Even during the feasting, the atmosphere at the high table remained strained, with Edward as disgruntled as when he had arrived at mid-morning. Lamely, Godwine tried to think of a topic of discussion that would interest his King. “We will set the hounds tomorrow,” he said cheerily, aware that he had already suggested hunting half an hour or so earlier. “The scent will be poor if this frost lies any heavier, but I have a new young bitch who is good: she may do us proud.”

  “No matter.” Edward answered. He waved his hand, the shadow-flickering light from torch, candle and hearth fire glinting on the vibrant jewels in his finger rings. The gesture and his tone displayed his boredom. Then he turned his head and stared at his appointed earl. “I have a better quarry in mind. One that I have waited long enough to bring to bay.”

  “Indeed?” A beat of alarm jolted Godwine’s pulse, but Edward had already turned his back and was talking animatedly to the man who sat, as ever, at his right hand: Robert Champart.

  Countess Gytha caught the momentary look of alarm that swept across her husband’s face and the smirk of triumph that sat, bold and brazen, on Champart’s indulgent features. She took several deep breaths, fighting an urge to shriek
her husband’s loyalty. What good would that do? It was not a woman’s place to meddle in the affairs of men.

  The Hall grew hot and noisy as the feasting swung into the enjoyed consumption of good food and excellent wine. When stomachs were full, the trestle tables would be cleared and removed, benches shifted to the sides in preparation for the entertainment that always accompanied a feast.

  Gytha, as head woman, poured wine for those seated at her husband’s high table. As she served, there was much laughter and shouting from the lower Hall, and she looked up to see two men stepping into the central space to begin a friendly wrestling match. The cheering rose to the high rafters of the timber roof and hung there with the hearth smoke and the wood-carved spirit faces. This was a Christian household, but no man dare build without seeking the added protection of the Old Ones. The King, Gytha noticed, was talking again to Godwine; this time their conversation seemed light, even jovial. Perhaps, the Countess thought, their differences were settled, any misunderstanding caused by Swegn’s foolishness set straight. Then she saw Edward lean slightly towards her husband, noticed a look of concern flash across Godwine’s face. What now? She glanced again and relaxed as Godwine began to smile.