Harold allowed his expression to relax into a genuine smile. He liked Ralf, despite the Norman blood in his veins. “I would say this young man would represent England with honour, sir.”
Delighted, Ralf leapt into the air, clapping his hands together. The King, Harold and Earl Godwine laughed appreciatively, yet other men scowled at this favouring of another foreigner. At least Edward, although come to manhood in Normandy, had been born in England with both father and mother committed to the English cause. Ralf’s mother had been sent abroad as the child bride to a Norman nobleman; Ralf, born and raised across the sea, had come to England three months before Edward’s coronation. He was a Norman receiving too many privileges from England and some feared that, as a kinsman of a king, he might have an eye on the throne itself.
The royal Hall was smoke-addled and stuffy despite air being drawn up through the smoke hole and the draughts riddling through and under walls and doors. Men of the Witan drifted into groups, debating the afternoon’s prospective meeting of Council. Bishops and clerics huddled together; earls, shire reeves, aldermen and merchantmen sought the opinions of their own kind. Tomorrow would see the Easter Moot of the London Guilds, held in the city of London within the imposing Alderman’s Hall. Erected in Aldermansbury Street, the place had, in the time of King Alfred, been a simple fortified Hall of timber and Roman stone, owned by a wealthy merchantman who had achieved the high and respected status of Alderman. During the settled years after Alfred, with trade flourishing and wealth growing, the merchants and tradesmen of London had begun to form themselves into guilds the better to serve their particular trade, setting agreed standards of workmanship, rates of price and pay, and authorising the number of apprentices. What better place than that same Alderman’s Hall for the London goldsmiths guild to meet? The bakers, the tanners, potters and weavers to debate the selling of wares, limit the encroachment of foreign imports or complain against the high rate of taxation? Edward intensely disliked going to the Guilds’ meeting house. In fact, setting foot inside the walls of London revolted him. It stank no more than other large cities—Winchester or York—nor was it any noisier or more crowded. No, London held too many sour memories for Edward. It was from London that his mother had yielded to that usurper’s claim. And London’s populace had not raised a single finger to protect him, his brother or their claim to the throne.
Edward, not wishing to be drawn into Guild or Council matters, took Harold to one side. “I hear you are to found a religious college at Waltham? It seems the fashion for all my earls at the moment. Siward founds a house, Leofric and his wife Countess Godgiva are to build an abbey at Coventry.”
Harold could not understand Edward’s scathing tone. It was not uncommon for wealthy men to become patrons of religious houses; if you could not earn God’s favour, then why not purchase it? To build a church was to acquire a meagre place in heaven. To build an abbey, a seat at God’s side.
“I begin to feel,” Edward continued peevishly, “that the men around me either have much explaining to do to God, or are taking the opportunity to parade their wealth and status. If that be the case, to whom? Each other? Me?”
A drink would have been welcome. To have taken a sip would have allowed Harold a moment to consider an answer. “I offer an abbey to Waltham,” he said carefully—it was all too easy to offend Edward when he was teetering on one of his petulant moods. “Because my illness was cured there, a suitable way to give thanks for God’s blessing, do you not think?”
“Indeed it is,” Edward responded forthrightly, accepting the answer. “But that rogue, Earl Leofric, cannot claim the same.”
There were two answers Harold could make. Aye, well, Leofric is a scheming, money-grabbing bastard who will buy support from whatever quarter he deems necessary. That response did not seem appropriate. Instead, Harold offered tact. “Why do you not consider building some monument to the glory of your reign? The greatest of kings ought always to leave some permanent reminder of their achievements.”
The self-satisfaction that spread rapidly over Edward’s face told Harold that he had hit the target dead centre. “A monastery at Islip in Oxfordshire, perhaps? The place of your birthing would be appropriate.”
Scratching at his beard, Edward gazed upwards at the soot-blackened arched timbers of the sharply apexed roof. A damp, cold and dismal place, this Hall, with no pomp, nothing that impressed. The kitchens were on the far side of the courtyard—food arrived chilled and greasy; the stabling was suited only for mounts the size of shaggy ponies, not the warhorses that Edward had brought with him from Normandy. The kennels were overcrowded; two bitches had not whelped this year because of it. Edward liked his hunting and if hounds were not in fine fettle then the day’s chase might as well not be bothered with.
The river fog and mists made this island so damp, of course. Now, if stone were used for building…Edward closed his eyes, saw in his mind the splendid citadels of Normandy that he had lived in as a child and young man. Duke Robert’s palace at Rouen, the castles of Alan de Bretagne, Gilbert, comte de Brionne, the Counts of Eu and Burgundy. His sister, Ralf s mother, had lived until the death of her first husband in a stone-built fortification placed upon a man-made hill at Mantes. Her present husband, the Count, Eustace de Boulogne, lived in even grander style. Edward’s eyes snapped open—and those men were nothing but counts! Here he was, a king, sovereign lord of all England, standing shivering with cold feet and numbed hands in a timber shack, a wattle-built midden heap!
“Stone!” he proclaimed. “That is the material to use. I intend to erect something magnificent.” He raised his voice so that those nearby might hear. “My council shall agree to have built, in my honour, a residence more fitting to my status. I will have a palace here on Thorney and, where the timber chapel of St. Peter’s is frequently washed by the spring floods, the ground will be cleared and drained. There I shall rebuild that insignificant church. My offering to God will be an abbey, a minster of the finest stone, with windows of glass and a tower that stretches to the sky. It will be called the West Minster, and the aldermen of the guilds, when they have need to speak with me, will assemble here.” He pointed at his feet. “Here in my new King’s Hall within the Palace of West Minster!” He gazed at those present, eyes alight, and the bishops, clerics, merchants and aldermen put their hands together in polite applause. Siward and Leofric exchanged wry glances with Godwine and Harold, then joined the vociferous congratulating of Edward for his insight and wisdom. It was something they had overlooked in the enthusiasm of their own building: Edward would not want to be left out of the glory. His petty jealousies could reverberate for months.
Harold had no further speech with Edward until the preliminary meeting of the Council was due to commence. They were proceeding along the shadow-bound corridor that linked the Hall with the more secluded council chamber. Edward, wearing his royal regalia and his gold crown, led the file of men and instructed Harold to walk beside him. “Were you aware, Harold, that Baldwin of Flanders is again complaining about trade? He wails that our export tax is over high, our import restrictions too limiting. In particular he has been bellyaching about our wool exports. Yours, actually, from East Anglia.”
Harold spread his hands, at a loss for the second time that day for a suitable answer. Baldwin of Flanders, although an occasional ally of England, was a pain in the backside when it came to complaining about the imbalances of trade.
“I have been ill, Sir, I regret that I have not kept abreast of the situation. Allow me a day or two to investigate and I shall report to you.”
Impatiently Edward flapped his hand. “I have clerics who have seen to all that boring nonsense. No, it is for a more permanent solution that I have raised this issue with you. Baldwin has a brood of daughters, a few of them nearing marriageable age. I think it time you sought a Christian-vowed marriage, my lad. Ally with Flanders. That will sort the man’s damned moaning.”
Haro
ld froze, pale with shock. Godwine, a few paces behind, cannoned into him. Harold was not short-tempered like his elder brother, nor was he a man of forthright views as was his father. He took his obligations seriously but equally, his private life was important.
How could he answer? “Begging your pardon, my Lord King, but I have recently taken a woman as hand-fast wife. I have no wish, as yet, to pursue marriage elsewhere. I am content with Edyth.”
“But I am not.” Edward fixed Harold with a brief stare of contemptuous disapproval, then turned to face Earl Godwine. “I am not content to take in marriage the daughter of a man who allows his son to sin against the laws of our Christian Church.”
Harold caught his breath, as did other men, the muted sounds of shock tumbling loud in the quietness.
Godwine was an accomplished tactician, rarely lost for words. His quick mind was well able to deal with this new insult to his family. “By the laws of our land, my son is at liberty to take into his bed a legally acknowledged concubine. As do many men of your Council.” Pointedly, Godwine glanced around at the men following. “More than a few of those who serve you have taken a mistress as well as wife. Even men of God are not reluctant to have their beds warmed by something softer than a fire-heated brick.”
Godwine stood spear-straight, gazing without fear at Edward. “You, however, must take a Christian-blessed wife, for you must have a legitimate son. There must be no challenge to the next who may sit on the throne of England, as there has been between you and your half-sibling rivals, but Earl Harold here and Earl Siward, and Leofric and…” He paused. Many faces began to suffuse with red. “No.” With a mocking bow of acknowledgement, he allowed his hands to drop. “No more names. Some here, for all that the custom is legal, do not wish their private liaisons made public. Let us just say that these men here, including my second-born son, will not become king and so they are free to follow the old laws if they so choose.”
Edward’s expression was turning petulant. Godwine stepped closer and added, so that only he could hear, “You would not want such eminent men to deny your request for a new palace, Sire? I remind you that the public purse is low and we may yet receive another invasion from across the North Sea this summer. There will be ships to provision, men to pay. The Guilds will not accept any rise in taxation…” He let the words falter, locked eyes with Edward. “You may need to fund the building from your own treasury.” He said no more, allowed the words that would have followed to run as a silent but potent: If you want your palace, leave the old laws be.
Edward glared with what almost amounted to hatred at the silent men watching him, some with heads ducked, a few brazenly outstaring him as Harold and Godwine were doing. “It is a matter,” Godwine concluded, “of liberal interpretation. We bow our heads to the laws of the church, so long as those laws allow us to follow the laws of our ancestors. And besides, it would be foolish, would it not, to ally with Baldwin of Flanders before we are certain whether he intends to go with, or against, Magnus of Norway?”
Edward scowled. Damn Godwine he thought. Damn the bloody, arrogant, meddling man. He turned his back and stalked alone to the council chamber with an expression of dark, rumbling thunder.
He had regretted the decision to take Edith Godwine’s daughter as wife within twenty and four hours of announcing it. The arrogance of Godwine! Robert Champart’s idea had been to restrain the insufferable Earl, to bind him neck, ankle and wrist. It had not occurred to either of them that betrothal to Edith might unlock the few chains of subordination that already existed and leave only a redoubled ambition for power. Oh, the plan had worked well at first—when Godwine had ridden into Winchester and so easily broken his alliance with the Queen—damn her meddling eyes. She was already prevailing upon notable men of the church to mount a plea of innocence on her behalf. It was only a matter of time before he would be forced to show public compassion to the manipulative old hag. Well, time wasting could be stretched two ways.
For their defiance this day, Godwine and Harold would be made to feel as much frustration as he did with them. Godwine would be made to wait! While this betrothal stood, Edith could not enter into agreement with anyone else. Godwine could seek no other alliance for her. If he required the help of other noble houses, well, let him force Harold into a Christian marriage.
Edward’s contempt took in every face, every expression as the men of his Witan filed into the council chamber and took their seats.
Godwine and Harold—aye and all those other squirming toads—would pay dearly for this day’s defiance. Edward grunted a bitter, hollow sound. I do not forget. Never, do I forget, he thought. It is the one acceptable trait that I appear to have inherited, in full, from my mother.
13
Southwark
But Mother!” Tears of annoyed frustration were beginning to fall down Edith’s cheeks. Irritably she brushed at her right eye; weeping, she knew of old, would not get her mother’s sympathy. “Tears are for the tragedies of life, not the minor incidents,” Gytha had often remarked.
A maidservant entered from the outer Hall carrying a basket containing hanks of spun red-dyed wool. Gytha pointed to the floor beside her loom. “Place it here, Fræda.”
The girl bobbed a curtsey and left the chamber through the same door.
Edith, sitting hunched and dejected on a stool, was trembling with anger and frustration. “I am ashamed before the court, before all England. The King will not allow me to enter into his Hall. Will not allow me through the gates at Thorney…I was turned away, Mother! Not an hour since, turned away!”
Gytha was standing at her loom, threading stone weights upon the ends of the warp threads. This latest family crisis permitting, she intended to begin a new cloth today; the youngest boys were in desperate need of new tunics—how fast they grew! She dropped a weight, bent to retrieve it, inspecting the ring of stone with care to ensure no crack ran through it. With a sigh she answered her daughter. “Edward has been a bachelor for so many years, child. It must be difficult for him to adjust to the prospect of taking a wife into his bed.”
A fresh cry rose from Edith’s lips. “He will never take me to his bed, though, will he? Not now! He detests the sight of me, has set me aside. I am shamed. I may as well retire to a convent or drown myself in the Thames!”
Gytha was losing patience; she had much to do this afternoon. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring Edith from Wilton? At the nunnery all this delaying on Edward’s part would have passed her by. “Two rather extreme solutions, do you not think, daughter?” she responded with mild derision. “If Edward truly no longer wants you, then your father will simply find you an alternative husband.”
“If there is any man desperate enough. Who would want me now—would take a king’s cast-off as wife?”
Plenty of men, Gytha mused. Men who would be only too pleased to ride on the back of Godwine’s position and fortune, regardless of the status of the daughter. But it was an unkind thought, she kept it to herself.
Edith had always been a capricious child, her moods changing as frequently as the direction of the wind. The Countess supposed that most of it was because she had been the only girl child among so many boys. There was no denying that the girl had been spoilt in compensation for having no sisters, for always being the one left out. The boys had pursued their interests in hunting, sailing, fishing, riding…male occupations. What had there been for Edith? Education, sewing, cooking, weaving. The use and lore of herbs. Just as the boys were expected to follow in their father’s steps, Edith was destined to become a wife and mistress of some grand household. Young ladies did not hunt or sail, did not come home of an evening muddied and bloodied, as so frequently had the boys.
Edith leapt from her stool, toppling it to the rush-covered floor, her fists clenched, fair hair tossing. “This is all Father’s fault! His and Harold’s! Father has been deliberately antagonising Edward for weeks and now Harold has upse
t him by taking a common-born as his whore. I do not know how you permit it, Mother, he is your son, you ought have more care for his morals!”
“Your brother is a man grown, my dear. His morals are for his own conscience, not mine. Yours neither, for that matter, nor the King’s.”
As her rage grew, Edith missed the brusque note in her mother’s tone. “Edward has denounced Father as contemptuous and defiant, Harold as un-Christian and immoral. Is it a wonder that he now does not want me as wife?”
With the first two statements Gytha had no occasion to disagree. She had heard the same complaints last night from her indignant husband as he prepared for bed. He had stamped around the bed chamber, hurling clothes to the floor as he removed them, cursing Edward’s unreasonable peevishness the louder with each discarded garment. She answered her daughter as she had answered her husband: “Edward is finding his feet in the matter of government. He blows hot and cold, like the weather, because he is insecure. For too long was he left in Normandy. An unwanted boy, a man without home, country or place in society, neither follower nor leader. Suddenly he finds himself a king, with the incompetence of his father hanging over him and the interference of his mother to contend with. He has been released from the cage, but his wings remain stiff. One day soon he will realise that he can fly, independent of the demands of others.”
Gytha was ever reluctant to see evil or weakness in any man or woman. Not everyone, she believed, found their strength, their talent or gift with ease.
“Edward is impulsive and inconstant because he is not yet sure of his own ability to make a correct decision. By next week he will be condemning some other inconsequential matter, my daughter. Leave this latest quarrel to burn itself out.”
“Why has father not apologised to the King for so upsetting him at that first meeting of Council a few days past?” Edith demanded to know. “And would it be so difficult for Harold to appease the King and take a daughter of Baldwin of Flanders—to return his slut, bag and baggage, back to the Nazeing midden hut whence she came? Both of them, Father and Harold, are jeopardising my future for their own swollen-headed pride!”
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