I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  “I am thinking of taking a wife,” Edward had stated blandly to the Earl.

  Startled at this confidence, Godwine had momentarily found himself lost for words—but delight almost immediately suffused his features. “That is good news!” he enthused. “A wise choice could bring many an advantage to England.” A king needed an heir to his throne and England needed secure alliance. A wife was the means to both. Godwine’s alert political mind had already begun calculating, rapidly selecting and discarding suitable daughters, widows or sisters of emperors and kings.

  A faint smile tipped the sides of Edward’s mouth; he knew Godwine well enough to guess at those busy thoughts! “I have already made my choice,” he stated. “I need to ensure that my back is shielded against treachery. With England secure from internal wrangling, we can outface anything Norway may throw at us.” He paused. “I am going to choose a wife from the family of one of my earls.” He watched, mischievously delighted as Godwine’s brows dipped warily. A marriage with Northumbria or Mercia would bring extreme difficulties for Godwine—perhaps even ruin him.

  Robert had indeed suggested one of Siward’s kindred, or Leofric’s youngest…ah, Edward had been sorely tempted to follow his friend’s advice, to take the first step towards bringing Godwine to his knees!

  “Siward’s daughters and nieces are not so fair to look upon, yet there must be something good to be said of them, surely?” Edward was finally beginning to enjoy himself. Satisfied at the pale look of horror that flickered across Godwine’s face, he added, “They may all have been bred in that uncivilised cesspit of the North, but one of them must have received an education, can read and write, and talk in an accent that is at least vaguely understandable.”

  His anger at Swegn Godwinesson’s treachery, coupled with the impotence he felt in the face of his damned mother’s interference, had decided him in favour of Robert’s tentative suggestion. How disruptive to a king’s routine and way of life would it be to take a wife? He only need bed her once or twice to impregnate her; see her only when public protocol dictated—she could have her own apartments, even her own palace. Once he had fulfilled his husband’s duties he could hunt and pursue his reading and studies of God unhindered. And Robert, as his personal priest, would still be there to proffer comfort and understanding. Yes, the delight of putting a man such as Godwine back into place far outweighed the minor disadvantages of taking a wife.

  “Alternatively, there is Leofric’s only surviving daughter,” Edward continued, immersed in his private enjoyment. “She is young, I grant, but that is no disadvantage to a man of modest years like myself. She will soon reach breeding age.”

  Godwine did not know how to answer. He could not appear churlish or fatuous, but, by God, he could not allow Edward to ally as son-in-law to Leofric or Siward! He swallowed, slid a pleasant smile across his mouth. “A woman fresh with the bloom of childhood is to be much desired, my Lord King, but to take such a young—and so often sickly—girl as wife would mean a long wait for a child of your own.”

  To his immense relief, Edward agreed. “My thoughts exactly, Godwine, I cannot look to Mercia. I have therefore made my choice, I will take your daughter Edith.”

  Godwine’s heart pounded fast for several beats. Had he heard aright? God in His mercy, was this so? His daughter, his Edith, to be Queen? The mother of the next king! He had always hoped for it, of course, but had never dared suggest such a move. He looked up, saw Gytha; grinned broadly at her, saw her smile. She would be as pleased at this news as was he.

  “There is of course dowry and such to be discussed.” Edward said, offhanded, pausing to applaud a particularly excellent bout of the wrestling. “But it would be good for myself and Wessex to be bound together in alliance, would it not?”

  Enthusiastically, Godwine agreed. What power and position a son born to Edith would give him!

  As if reading those thoughts—indeed, they were all too plain—Edward then said, “For such a betrothal to be considered, I will naturally require unquestioning loyalty.” Godwine made to reassure him, but Edward allowed him no chance to answer. “I ride on the morrow to Winchester, My Earls of Northumbria, Mercia and East Anglia have been summoned to meet me there, I would have Wessex with me also, when I have my mother arrested for treason.”

  ***

  Harold’s head ached, as did his limbs, his neck, his back. He gripped the reins, his fingers stiff and cramped—from the bite of the frosted air he assumed. He ought to push into a canter for he had only three days to reach Winchester, but it hurt to go faster than a walk and even that slow pace jarred his body with every step.

  When the King’s summons had come, Harold had been at Ely, settling some long-rumbling dispute over the ownership of church land. Bishop Stigand was not much liked or respected among the clergy, especially since he knew every trick of the law concerning what appeared to be his on paper. The written word, the monastery opposing him claimed, could be falsified, whereas the tradition of word of mouth could not. Ah, the Bishop had countered, but what was written and witnessed must be upheld in law…and so the thing had circled on. Harold had, in a way, been grateful to Edward for the timely distraction.

  He was so tired! Why, he did not know; he had not overexerted himself these last few weeks. Was it the thought of the long ride ahead, the coldness of the air? The knowing that Edward was not over-pleased with any member of the Godwine family? If only he could stop, rest, close his eyes for a moment…his head drooped…and he was falling, slithering from his horse.

  His servant was out of the saddle and squatting beside him within the space of two heartbeats, hands fluttering over his master’s body. The skin was burning with fever, yet Harold was shivering.

  Leofgar, Harold’s chaplain, dismounted as rapidly and ran to join the anxious servant. He touched his own fingers to Harold’s flushed face. “My Lord, you are not well. We must seek warmth and shelter for you.”

  “No, Leofgar, I thank you for your concern, but the King’s summons…” It was difficult for Harold to speak. His chest felt as if it were bound by tight bands, his mouth was dry, face taut and stiff. He tried to uncurl his clenched fingers, but there was no movement in his left arm, no feeling beyond a heavy weight, as if it were encased in lead.

  “…Can go to the devil,” the chaplain interrupted. “The King will need do without your presence for the time being.” Leofgar stood, surveyed the landscape, beckoned one of Harold’s housecarls forward. “I am unfamiliar with much of this area,” he said. “We need take my Lord Earl to a place of security, for I fear he is gravely ill. Where do you recommend?”

  Scalpi rubbed his bearded chin with his calloused hand. Born not four miles from this very road, he knew their exact position. Either of the two villages lying ahead, Nazeing or Epping, would offer an inn. Or there was Waltham. He described all three, but added, “Eadric the thegn is as near a distance, if we take a track that follows south-west. There is no more trustworthy man, and his wife possesses much knowledge of healing.”

  Leofgar nodded. It was as suitable a place as any.

  7

  Winchester

  Emma stood by the narrow window of her upper-floor room. She was cold, but did not move away from the draught. The wind, carrying a first early flurry of snow, buffeted relentlessly against the thick glass, finding small cracks and fissures in the wooden frame and around the lead that bound the small and expensive panes. The fingers of her right hand toyed with one of the rings that adorned her left, her gaze following the slow, hobbling gait of a lame beggar making his way up the street that ran the other side of her boundary wall. The High Street had been busy for much of the day, but with the November afternoon drawing in towards dusk and the onset of unwelcome snow, people had scurried for the warmth of their homes or the companionship of the taverns. The morrow, the seventeenth day of the month, was market day and then, whatever the vagaries of the weather, Winchester wou
ld become as bustling as a beehive at the height of summer. For now, the town appeared to be descending into winter hibernation.

  Winchester was a royal and ancient city. The palace was of the Saxon style, said to have been built originally for the great King Alfred of Wessex himself. With timber and wattle walls, the domineering Hall, more than seventy-five feet in length and half that in width, boasted towering arched beams set beneath a high cruck roof, topped with overlapping wooden shingles. Only the numerous churches of Winchester and the imposing Minster, which rose majestic in all its glory a short walk up that same High Street, were constructed in stone—and then there was Emma’s private residence; a rarity, one of the few non-ecclesiastical structures in all England to be partially stone-built and bear glass windows.

  Emma’s Queen’s Hall had been erected during the first years of her marriage to the Dane, Cnut, a time when he, as a usurper king, had urgency to prove that he had shed the barbarian culture of his ancestors and had adopted the civilisation of a Christian. Upon her marriage Emma could have asked anything of him; she chose to have built upon her dower land a residence that befitted her status. Constructed in Norman stone in the French style, it was grand in design although modest in size. The boundary wall stood higher than a man astride a horse, its gateway leading through to an impressive square courtyard, edged by timbered buildings: kitchens, stables, storerooms. Opposite stood the two-storeyed building that had become Emma’s favourite home. Solid. Secure. The ground floor was much as any noble-born’s Hall, save that the walls and vaulting were of stone. This was the public place, where meals were served and audiences taken. A narrow wooden staircase at the rear led up to the first floor, to the privacy of the Queen’s own rooms, which were comfortable and warm, richly furnished and hung with splendid tapestries. This had more traditional timber beams, and walls infilled with daub and plaster, with only the two crudely designed chimney alcoves built of fireproof stone.

  There were three rooms: the solar, Emma’s sitting room where she would read or sew or conduct private meetings that were not for the Hall’s open-eared attention; her bed-chamber, with in one corner a chapel; and, beyond the bed-chamber, a third room, with a door of solid-carved oak. A small, windowless room without furniture or draperies, containing only several large and weighty chests. The royal treasury of England, which Emma, as was her right and duty as Queen, held in safe protection.

  A horseman rode along the street, his head tucked in against the bite of wind, his face muffled by his thick-woven winter cloak. The Queen watched him, mildly interested. A well-bred horse, the rider dressed in garments declaring him to be of moderate status—was he a royal messenger? To her own annoyance, Emma held her breath…but he rode past the gateway, turned into the next lane and disappeared from view. He was not, then, come from the palace. She watched the street, waited. Her son was in Winchester, accompanied, so she had heard, by that awful man Champart and several earls, among them Godwine. That brought some cheer, for Godwine had shown himself to be a friend on more than the one occasion. Yet, Emma was forced to reflect to herself, he had not always kept his faith with her cause.

  The King had ridden in yester afternoon, but no summons had come for her. He remained displeased with her, then, but when was he not? In frustration Emma rubbed away the breath that had steamed on the glass. She would not lower herself to send word to him, would not allow him to witness her niggling anxiety. Why did the product of her own flesh and blood not trust her to do what was best to govern England? Why could he not accept the advice born of her accumulated wisdom? Why? Because of a few harsh decisions that she had been forced to make in the past—decisions made to keep the peace and save England. He had no conception of the reality of being a king—or queen. Did not understand the responsibilities that occasionally weighed heavy on the heart, conscience and soul. He would. One day he would have to make a choice that would be hard to explain to his Maker at the Last Judgement. And then, ah, then he would understand what it meant to be an effective and efficient ruler of a land as diverse and complex as England.

  Daylight was fading. Emma snorted. Why was she fooling herself? Why did Edward not trust her—because there were too many rumours spitting from the lips of her enemies, that was why! Oh, she herself paid little mind to rumour, unless there was adequate proof to back the tattle, but Edward? Huh, he revelled in gossip!

  This latest nonsense. He suspected her of sending written invitation to Magnus of Norway to come make a try for the English crown. Did Edward think her to be such a fool as to commit treason to parchment? Should Magnus turn his attention from the difficulties of annexing Denmark for himself and glance also in England’s direction…well, she might then be interested in advocating his cause…but to invite him here? To play openly into Edward’s hand? Madness!

  Obviously Edward had no desire to see her. Let him sit and moulder in that damp and draught-riddled palace of his! By right, as Queen she had charge of the treasury, the jewels, the gold, silver and coin. The wealth of England was secured in those locked oak chests in the room beyond her bed-chamber. And while she held that security he was as tied to her as a new-born babe is bound to the necessity of the breast.

  “Alysse,” she commanded, turning suddenly from the window into the dimness of the chamber. “I would have the candles lit, this dismal day tires me.” Emma suppressed an exasperated sigh as she folded the shutter across the window. What was she to do about Edward? What, in all practicality, could she do? I will dine here in privacy,” she added as she settled herself into her chair. “I have no inclination to share the merriment of the Hall.”

  It was foolish and undignified to feel rejected. She had no wish to venture out into the cold evening to attend the banal company at a hypocritical court. All those self-important men, Leofric, Siward—what a vile stench emanated from the moth-addled wolf-skin cloak that man insisted on wearing! He was a Northerner, of course, with the poor manners and oafishness of that uncivilised area of England. Why could she not banish this dejection at not being summoned?

  The girl lit the candles, bobbed a curtsey and left the room to see about food for her lady. Emma stretched her feet to the warmth of the hearth and laid her head against the high back of the chair. The chamber was still and quiet, with only the crackle of hearth flames, a shifting log, the occasional muffled sound filtering from the High Street. Her hands fell limp, her jaw slackened. She dozed, only to wake abruptly moments later, startled by sounds beyond the door. She stood, her brows dipping into a furrow of disapproval. How dare her men make disturbance beyond the privacy of her rooms! She moved angrily towards the door, her hand coming up to reach out for the latch; she stopped, the raised hand going instead, in a rush of unexpected fear, to her throat.

  A voice she recognised sounded loud and insistent on the wooden stairs, accompanied by the scrape and stamp of men’s boots. The door latch lifted and the door itself was flung open.

  Edward walked into the room. His badger-fur hat and the shoulders of his cloak were pattered with melting snow crystals sparkling like miniature diamonds in the disturbed flicker-dance of frail yellow candlelight. “Mother,” he said, acknowledging her shallow curtsey. He strode to the fire to warm the chill from his fingers, his back to her and the room.

  Emma glanced at the men hesitating beyond the threshold. “Is it so intimidating to visit me, Sir,” she remarked, her voice scathing, “that you dare not come unless escorted by three of your noblest and most brave earls?” She turned, composed and serene to the door. “My Lords, pray enter the lioness’s den. The beast within has not eaten, but I assure you she is not unduly ravenous.” Emma accompanied her words with a slight gesture of her hand, noting, with thin pressed lips, that her visitors were flanked by six of Edward’s housecarls, ostentatiously bearing arms.

  Edward, lifting his cloak so that he should not sit on its dampness, seated himself in Emma’s chair. He did not lean back, but kept his chilled fingers to the
warmth. His long and slender hands were so prone to the cold. He detested winter. November in particular depressed him; so many dull and dreary days stretching ahead.

  Warmed, slightly more comfortable, the King nodded to his bodyguard, who moved with determined strides across the room, heading for the inner closed door. Emma walked swiftly to bar their way. “There is nothing beyond this door save my bed-chamber. My private room.”

  Edward barely looked at her as he replied. “I have no care for your bed-chamber, madam, nor for whom you may occasionally invite within it.” He flickered a glance at Godwine, his insinuation quite open. Godwine’s face tinged pink but he held his tongue. “It is the chamber beyond that interests me,” he continued.

  The Queen forced an easy, pleasant smile, realising it would do her no service to lose her temper. “I assure you,” she insisted, “the chamber you refer to is adequately secure. It requires no additional scrutiny.”

  “Mayhap not,” Edward answered, rising to his feet and dusting creases from his tunic. “But I feel a royal treasury ought be housed where a king can keep a close eye to it.” He offered his mother a slight, informal bow. “However, I thank you for the good care that you have taken of England’s wealth until now. Do let my men pass, Mother.”

  Emma had no choice but to comply. She stepped to one side and watched, helpless, as the men began removing the heavy chests from the strong-room, impotent fury blazing in her vivid blue eyes. No word passed anyone’s lips as each chest was removed; the only sound being the laboured breath and grunts of the six men as they struggled to negotiate the steep wooden stairs down to the Hall below.

  With the last box gone, Edward strolled to the outer door, where he paused and smiled mockingly. “I would suggest, madam, that you seek lodging at Wilton or, if you prefer, I can arrange a position somewhere as abbess. There must be a place in my realm that would be willing to take you. Or perhaps you would seek retirement in your homeland of Normandy?” His smile broadened, sickly sweet. “Mayhap Cnut left you some legacy in his land across the sea. Would Norway welcome you?”