I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  The ship was almost out of the harbour, about to turn into the open sea. She was bound for England and the port that nestled beside the seven white cliffs at Dover, taking her two important passengers away from Bruges for ever. Mathilda had never imagined that she would be parted from her beloved sister, although Judith was three years her senior and wed to another Englishman, Swegn’s younger brother, Tostig Godwinesson.

  When he had first come to her father’s court, openly seeking a wife in the year of Our Lord 1045, Mathilda had not seen him as a threat to her personal happiness. She had been seven years old, Judith ten, Tostig himself entering his third decade. Both girls knew of the importance of marriage, their elder sisters were the wives of noblemen, their unions bringing alliances to their father’s domain of Flanders. They had been too young to worry when their father agreed that Judith should become Tostig’s wife and life for the two girls had barely altered. Until eight weeks past, when Judith had turned fourteen and finally gone to her husband’s bed.

  Swegn settled his arm companionably around Mathilda’s thin shoulders—although he had to stoop, for he was tall, she no higher than a hand-span above four feet.

  “My brother may be a serious-faced, sententious bigot, but that may work in your sister’s favour. She will be kindly treated and well respected. Added to that, unlike myself, Tostig is highly favoured by our sister Edith. I would wager Judith will spend much of her time as the Queen’s companion.”

  Mathilda sniffed and attempted a pale smile; he was trying to cheer her and she was grateful for that. What she could not understand was why Tostig had so suddenly had to leave Flanders. He had appeared well settled here, with little inclination to return to his family or the service of the English King. It had, perhaps, something to do with politics and Swegn? An eleven-year-old child, a girl, did not bother her head with the see-sawing of government manoeuvrings—nor the petty squabbles of one man with another, although watching that ship take her sister away to England, Mathilda wondered whether she ought to. She could read and write, was intelligent, had just not bothered with such subjects before.

  The group assembled on the quay began to disperse. Her father Baldwin, the fifth Count of Flanders to carry that name, was already mounted, his stentorian voice ringing out in loud conversation with his companion, Eustace de Boulogne. Now that was one reason why Mathilda ought take more note of the daily intrigues of court. Why was Eustace—brother-in-law to Edward of England and friend to Normandy—visiting her father here in Bruges?

  “Would you care to walk with me, Mistress Mathilda?” Swegn asked with gentlemanly politeness.

  Mathilda smiled, delighted that he should single her out, sought permission from her mother with a quick look of enquiry. The Countess nodded. The girl could come to no harm within such numerous company and she needed some distraction to wean her mind from Judith’s going.

  Having decided that politics might be an option to relieve the boredom that would afflict her now that Judith had left, Mathilda elected to pursue her new interest immediately by questioning Swegn in what she thought to be an adult manner. “I do not understand why your brother has decided to return to England, yet you did not wish to accompany him?”

  Swegn laughed, a belly shout of mirth. Should he give her the truth—that his brother was embarrassed by his presence—or the polite version?

  “Well, my inquisitive little mistress, aside from the fact that my brother and I fell out of friendship while on campaign together in that rain-sodden, Godless land of Wales, I am not welcome at King Edward’s moralistic court.”

  Ah, yes, she remembered now, Judith had told her that Swegn was out of favour. Something to do with a woman and a child. She would try a different tack. “Do you have a wife and children, my Lord?”

  “I have a son named Hakon. He is being reared in my father’s house.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Gone to God.” As Swegn intended, Mathilda assumed the woman had died. He knew full well that Eadgifu had abandoned the boy and returned to her nunnery immediately after his own departure from Bosham. She could rot there as far as he was concerned.

  Wondering what else to talk about, Mathilda searched her mind for further information gleaned from Judith. With a lot of giggling, they had spent much of a recent afternoon together discussing men’s attributes. Some of Judith’s comments Mathilda had not understood. She had found that one of her sister’s more irritating habits now that she was married and suddenly so knowledgeable about adult matters. What was it Judith had remarked—that Swegn was a cock-planter? Whatever did that mean? She would like to ask him, but had a feeling the reference was crude. She opted for safer ground. “I have heard that you have been fighting with your cousin, Svein Estrithson of Denmark. It must have been a relief when Magnus of Norway so unexpectedly died.”

  Again Swegn laughed as he handed her up a flight of narrow wooden steps. They had turned away from the harbour now Baldwin’s impressive-built fortress reared ahead, its guardian stone walls reflecting the wind-tossed shadow of the clouds that scuttled overhead.

  “I have not fought with my cousin, little lady, but against him. I have been with Magnus’s successor, Harald Sigurdsson, known as Hardrada, the Hard Bargainer.”

  Swegn had enjoyed those recent months looting along the northern coastline with the Norwegian fleet. Had earned for himself a chest of gold and seven ships; the Hardrada held him in high regard. Which was more than could be said of his own king. Moreover, piracy had been offensive to those back in England, which was one reason why Tostig had decided to distance himself from any mud that might cling, had left Bruges so soon after his brother had arrived.

  The second reason was that, unlike Swegn, Tostig had no wish to find himself on the wrong side of a political upheaval. Europe’s nobility could soon be at one another’s throats again, for the localised rebellion against the German Emperor was escalating. Baldwin, with his accessible ports, was a central pivot to the affray. Naturally, the Count was backing his brother-in-law Henry of France, who expected support from his vassal, Duke William of Normandy. The Emperor was allied with Pope Leo IX, Geoffrey Martel, comte d’Anjou, and Svein of Denmark. That left Edward to decide between France and Germany. His predicament, that he had friendship—and kinship—with both sides of the grumbling disagreement.

  None of this, Swegn conjectured, would be of interest to Mathilda. Instead, he smiled impishly at her. “I am a free man, willing to serve any lord who cares to pay me adequate gold. And if that lord happens also to have the prettiest of youngest daughters, then why should I leave?”

  Mathilda blushed and smiled back coyly. She liked Swegn better than his dour brother Tostig.

  If Swegn had been a more conscientious man, he would not have encouraged her, but Swegn had neither conscience nor sense of responsibility. She was unbetrothed, he had no wife: he saw no reason why, if Tostig had Judith, he could not perhaps have Mathilda.

  He plucked a sprig of pink blossom off the nearest tree, handed it to her with a gracious bow. “Were I not in exile, I would follow my brother’s example and seek for myself a suitable young lady as wife.”

  Mathilda’s astute answer belied her innocence. “Any lord with sense, sir, would surely ignore the matter of exile and welcome a man of your capability, or at least your seven fine ships.”

  Thinking of Edward, Swegn chuckled as he kissed her hand a second time. “There lies the problem. Not all lords, my dear, though they be royal and wear a fine crown, possess the attribute of sense.”

  Had Mathilda been yet more astute, she might have applied that last criticism to Lord Swegn himself.

  ***

  Three days later Mathilda was summoned before her parents. Her mother had subtly hinted that they were considering her marriage arrangements. Her maids and the other young girls of court all shared her excitement, helping her to dress hurriedly in her finest gown, the spring
green one gathered tight at the waist, with long, trailing sleeves lined in a buttercup yellow and richly embroidered bands at cuff, hem and neckline. She pulled a comb through her fair hair and ran to their private chamber, full of hope and expectation. When had Swegn asked for her, she wondered? He had not been much at court these last days, had been busy elsewhere. But then, how long did it take to ask for a lady’s hand?

  She paused before the door to regain her breath and pinch a blush into her cheeks. Swegn would be there on the other side, waiting for her with laughter in his blue eyes and on his lips. She lifted the latch, stepped through the chamber.

  Disappointed, her skin drained of colour and a lurch of despondency twisted in her stomach. There was no Swegn, only her mother, father and the obsequious Eustace de Boulogne. What was he doing here? What interest had he in taking a wife? He had married Edward of England’s widowed sister some years past.

  “My dear,” her mother trilled, beckoning her to come in. “We have good news for you. With the Count as his ambassador, your father has arranged a most advantageous marriage for you.”

  Mathilda’s misgivings grew. What had Lord Swegn to do with Count Eustace?

  “Now that terms have finally been agreed, this marriage will make a fine alliance for me,” Baldwin proclaimed, slapping his knee with pleasure at the sealing of the deal. “Between us, Eustace, the three of us will control nigh on most of the Channel Sea coast!”

  Mathilda’s heart lurched with sudden fear. “The three of us,” her father had said. “Who?” she asked, tremulous. “Whom am I to wed?”

  Her mother answered brightly. The match her husband had arranged was indeed a most fortuitous one. “William, the Duke of Normandy.”

  Disbelief flooded Mathilda, heart, body and soul; utter, complete, contemptuous horror. A child her age might not care for political squabbles, but she had heard of William of Normandy and what she had heard, she did not like. Never, never would she wed such a detestable man!

  “Duke William? William the Bastard?” She spat her distaste at her father. “Do you so insult me? He is an illegitimate uneducated illiterate. A vassal lord with little chance of retaining hold over his lands for many more years. He is of common Viking blood—I am descended from the kings of all Europe, including the Great King, Alfred of England himself! You dare consider the Bastard fit to become my husband? His mother”—the words stuck like a grating fish bone in her throat—“his mother is the daughter of a tanner!”

  Glaring at her father and mother, Mathilda turned on her heel and stalked, with the dignity of a grown woman who well knows her own mind, from the room. Beyond the closed door she lifted the hem of her gown and ran, tears of disappointment, rage and hopelessness coursing down her cheeks. She would not, she told herself, over and over, under any conceivable circumstances marry William the Bastard.

  Her despair engulfed her as she threw herself face down on her bed. Would not marry him? What choice had she? None.

  24

  Sandwich

  Ten ships of the King’s fleet rested at anchor a reasonable distance from the coast of Kent. The cluster of buildings and moored ships that formed the harbour port of Sandwich nestled on the horizon, too far to distinguish any detail but close enough for comfort. Edward enjoyed the exhilaration of the sea air, especially on such a pleasantly warm day as this, but did not enjoy sailing too far from land when the threat of foreign raiders hovered on the other, seaward, horizon. The line of blockade out there, his commanders informed him, was holding well, the southern coast of England effectively sealed from pirates and unauthorised incoming trade: factors that would extensively damage the economy of Flanders and France.

  During the few dark hours of night, however, ships did occasionally manage to slip past the patrolling fleet: at Bosham seven ships slid quietly into harbour, dropping anchor out in the Chichester Channel, their commander coming ashore alone as the August sun rose in the eastern sky, flooding the dawn with swathes of pink and gold-tinged cloud.

  Swegn had decided to come home. Mercenary raiding was finally losing its appeal and the generous welcome that he had received in Flanders earlier in the year had been noticeably waning of late. Aimless roving, although attractive for its occasional excitement, was not conducive to homely comforts. He had amassed a substantial quantity of gold and intended to buy his way back into Edward’s favour; offering his ships into Edward’s service would guarantee the reinstatement of his title and lands. That had galled, hearing from Tostig that his entire estate had been divided between Harold, Beorn and Ralf of Mantes. What did Harold know of the Welsh? Had he struggled to form an alliance with Gruffydd of Gwynedd or suffered at the hands of that damned agitator, Gryffydd ap Rhydderch? Or Beorn—what did he know of border warfare? He was a seaman. Give him a ship and he could out-sail, out-flank, outfight any pirate raider. But avoid ambushes in the shape-shifting mist of the Welsh border hills? Fend off attack from across those fast-flowing, turbulent border rivers? That was Swegn’s speciality. Or so Swegn himself maintained.

  There was only one difficulty with returning home to England. Not convincing the King—the gold would pay for that—nor reconciling his father. Godwine had always, eventually, forgiven his first-born’s misdemeanours, no, Swegn’s final hurdle would be to obtain the forgiveness of his mother. He had been wrong to insult her. It had been the drink, the accumulation of problems, the situation at the time. Surely Gytha realised that? Would be pleased to see him returned safe to England?

  He was to be disappointed. Only the servants were at Bosham. His mother was residing with Edith at Sandwich in Kent, would not return until the autumn.

  ***

  “My God, you’ve got a nerve!” Harold spoke for them all: for his mother, brother Tostig, cousin Beorn and the Queen. “You run the King’s blockade, ride across country taking your time and pleasure, then walk in here as bold as a dog fox entering an unshuttered chicken coop and expect to be received with open arms! I assure you, brother Swegn, you will receive no such welcome!”

  The atmosphere in Edith’s chamber was deeply hostile. Semi-amused, Swegn thought that it might be easier to approach Gryffydd ap Rhydderch in his territories of Deheubarth, than face this glaring outrage from his own kindred. “I had hoped for an amicable reconciliation,” he answered with sarcasm. “Not from you, of course, Harold. Now that you have got your grubby hands on my lands, I expected you to be too greedy to give them up.” Swegn thrust his face closer to Harold’s, jabbing at his brother’s chest with his forefinger. “Well, let me remind you, brother, I am the eldest. When Father dies I inherit Wessex. Not you.”

  Tartly, Edith answered before Harold could deny his brother’s jealous insinuations. “The decision who has Wessex will be the King’s and Council’s not yours.” She was profoundly annoyed at Swegn’s return, but for reasons different from those of Harold and Beorn.

  It would be unrealistic to suppose that her marriage was happy, that she was fulfilled in her life. However, she lived in comfort and was respected by every man in the country, save for her husband and his wretched chaplain. But Emma had been right. With no fear of childbirth and no children sapping her energy—and figure—she could apply her mind to reading, the study of languages and politics. Edward was an ageing four and forty years to her youthful twenty, the probability that he would soon pass into God’s kingdom high indeed. All she had to do was remain quietly at court, always in the background, always there, ready to step forward from the shadows when the right occasion presented itself. Groomed by Emma, Edith had slid neatly into the role of queen, making herself ready to rule when the time eventually arrived when Edward could not.

  Swegn’s arrogant homecoming would jeopardise all her hard work, for her father was bound to advocate his reinstatement. And yet another public clash between Godwine and Edward could reflect on herself.

  She welcomed the support from her brothers Harold and Tostig, her cousin
and her mother. Harold’s vehemence surprised her, though, for he had never favoured Edith since that unfortunate episode at the boat race. She had been a child then, with immature reactions and feelings. Perhaps her brother realised that and had, when faced with a more serious threat from within the family, put the incident into perspective. Swegn, she realised now, was a man of greed and self-enhancement. Everything he did was for his own gain; his favours to her as a child had not been for her benefit, but to secure her devotion, to wean her from any affection she might show for his main rival, their brother Harold.

  Annoyed at losing his temper so soon into the argument, Harold backed away from Swegn. He sat down in a corner of the room with one arm resting across his thigh, lips compressed, seething.

  “It is not a matter of our forgiveness.” Tostig tossed his own thoughts into the heated discussion. “It is God’s. Abducting one of His holy daughters requires absolution from none less than the Pope himself.”

  Swegn sneered at him. “Oh, just what I would expect from you, Tostig. You always were a pain in my arse.”

  If the barb was intended to wound, it failed. Tostig had heard the same insult too often for it to affect him now. “I care nothing for your opinion of me, brother,” he responded with a sardonic smile. “I think you may find the King agrees with me, however.”

  Beorn had been leaning against the wall, his broad shoulders brushing against one of the expensive tapestries that served the dual purpose of hiding the cracked plaster beneath and shielding out the more voracious draughts. “I have no intention of giving up my lands, at least not to you, a traitor to my brother in Denmark.” His words were to the point, his tone bland. “If you want your earldom back, you will need to fight me for it.”