I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  Upstairs were the family rooms: Harold’s and Edyth’s private chambers, the solar and beyond, their bed-chamber, large rooms containing bed, tables, chairs, storage chests and Edyth’s loom. Both chambers were decorated with a touch of pride and a handful of love. Richly embroidered tapestries concealed the plaster and timber walls, bright woven curtains kept the draught from the bed. The solar was comfortable and welcoming, the bed-chamber warm and cosseting. In Harold’s humble opinion the best place to be in the entire kingdom.

  They dined alone in the solar, Harold and Edyth, that first night, with only each other and the children for company. The two little girls were fair-haired and blue-eyed, looked much like their mother, with dimpled smiles and gurgling laughter, although Alfrytha was still pale-skinned and thin for her age. Harold had played with them for a while, giving the two eldest rides on his back and swinging them high in his arms until their laughter came in breathless gasps. Algytha, barely two years of age, took her share of being tossed to the ceiling and caught in her father’s firm and confident grasp, her shrieks of laughter heard below in both courtyard and Hall.

  They were tired when their nurse came to take them to their beds in the room against the eastern side of the Hall. The quiet in the solar after they had gone descended like a soft feather fluttering from a passing bird. Harold sat sprawled in his favourite chair. The brazier was unlit, the window shutters thrown open to the evening, the coolness of descending night a welcome relief from the summer heat. Harold sighed, partially closed his eyes, content. Edyth sat opposite, bent over her sewing, a relaxed smile curving her mouth. Surreptitiously, through his lashes, Harold watched her.

  He could not quite believe his fortune at having her for his own. “You have produced some beautiful children for me,” he said, without opening his eyes. “They are a credit to you.” His expression suddenly broadened into a wicked grin. “Two girls, one boy. Would you be interested in trying for another son?”

  Completing her stitch and pushing the needle in for the next, Edyth answered, pretending seriousness. “I have two boys already, one is just somewhat taller and more moustached than the other.”

  “One has the makings of becoming a fine warrior one day.”

  “I agree. Goddwin will as well, when he grows up.”

  Harold released a deep roar of amusement. He opened his eyes, stood and walked over to Edyth, put his arms around her waist. Her figure had thickened since childbearing, but he preferred some meat on her bones. “I love you, woman. You do not know how much I have missed you while I have been away these last months.”

  She tilted her head up at him. “Oh, I do. I know just how much, for I have missed you the same.”

  Resting his chin on her head, Harold said, very quietly and slowly, “Then why don’t you put that damn sewing away and come to bed?”

  ***

  The candles had burnt low. Edyth murmured in her sleep and Harold slid his arm further around her waist, drawing her supple nakedness nearer to his own flesh. He was drowsing in that half-awareness between sleep and waking, his mind and private parts remembering the lovemaking he had shared with Edyth before sleep had overcome them. He slid his hand over the roundness of her hip, along her thigh, the skin silk-smooth to his touch. Cursed aloud at the sudden thumping at the chamber door. “What is it?” he called, irritated. “Go away. Leave it ’til morning.”

  “My Lord! Urgent news.”

  Edyth stirred and rolled into the warm patch where Harold had been as he swung his legs from the bed, flung a cloak around his shoulders. He strode to the door, opening it wide.

  “It had bloody better be urgent!” he cursed, glaring at the two men who stood beyond. One was the officer of the watch, the other a messenger, still catching his breath from hard riding. “Well? Tell me.”

  The messenger bowed, swallowed. “My Lord, I bring word from your good lady mother.”

  Bad news, that was obvious from the man’s nervous licking of his lips. Harold’s first thought was of his father. Had some illness overtaken him—or worse?

  “Sir. Your cousin is dead. Slain by a dagger to his throat.”

  “Beorn? You mean Beorn, my mother’s nephew? How? Did the fleet engage in combat then? Was the fighting bad?” The questions came in a tumble of bewilderment. Harold waved the messenger in. “What happened?”

  Fully awake now, Edyth was sitting on the bed, the covers drawn close, her sun-gold hair cascading across her shoulders.

  The messenger again ran his tongue over his dried lips. This news was not easy to tell. “My Lord. Earl Beorn was murdered. He was slain at the hands of your own brother. By Swegn Godwinesson.”

  Edyth screamed, thrust her fist into her mouth, tears cascading from her eyes. Harold stood quite still, too numbed to say anything, to move, to react. How was this possible? Was it some evil jest—a mistake perhaps? Yet tear marks streaked the messenger’s face. Suddenly Harold recognised him—he had been one of Beorn’s housecarls.

  Then it was true. Beorn was murdered. Slaughtered in cold blood by one of his own kindred.

  27

  Caen—September 1049

  Snatching the parchment from the trembling hands of his cleric and twisting it between his taut, white-knuckled fingers, William screwed the offensive letter into a ball and hurled it into the hearth fire with a bellow of rage. How dare he? How dare the Pope deny him permission to marry with Mathilda of Flanders!

  Several men edged towards the open doorway leading from the great hall, those nearest managing a tactful unobserved escape. The Duke in a rage was not a man to keep company with. Yet, one man sat, unconcerned, sipping at his wine. He was dressed expensively, quality cloth covering his ample-proportioned frame, jewelled rings adorning his fingers, Comte Eustace de Boulogne had nothing to fear from William, whether in good temper or foul. At least, not while the Duke of Normandy relied on him—and should William turn nasty, as he had with others, there was always kindred by marriage to call upon for aid. Unlikely that William would, by choice, antagonise the King of England.

  “Calm your passion, my dear Duke,” Eustace drawled, patting the air with his free hand. “’Twill come to nothing. The Pope must trot out his impotent authority now and then, to convince himself he sustains some small power. We all know that he cannot even keep his piss in a pot.”

  “Calm myself? Are you a complete imbecile?” William lashed out with his foot, sent a stool skidding across the stone flooring, then, grasping a table in both hands, upended that as well, scattering bowls and tankards, fruit and dishes. A servant crouched down to retrieve the broken shards of a pot. William kicked him. “His Holiness declares that I cannot marry the youngest daughter of Baldwin because he has decided we are too closely related—that her fifth cousin is my aunt’s nephew’s daughter—or whatever it was.” He kicked the servant again, harder. “All my plans, all my intentions ruined, and you say ignore it?”

  He had several worries on his mind, without minor details of genealogy to bother with. His mother was ill, dying, the doctors said. Why could they not do anything? Give her some stronger potion, use more effective herbs? Pah, what did these cretinous idiots know? She looked so frail…God’s truth, what was he to do when he lost her?

  And there was the galling matter of Guy de Brionne. His castle had still not fallen to William’s siege. How they were surviving inside those walls since the rebellion and battle at Val-ès-Dunes no one who wished to remain sane dared to consider. For more than two years had the castle been shuttered from the outside world. Surrender must—surely—come soon, before winter returned. Daily the Duke hoped for news that it was all ended, prayed that he would not need ride there again without a victory to his name.

  That rebellion was the direct cause of his presence at Caen. Two years ago it had been a village of no worth; William’s anger and determination for revenge had transformed it into an expanding town, a centre of impor
tance. Rouen had always been regarded as Normandy’s capital—until its citizens had supported and financed Guy de Brionne. William had punished the town, its citizens, economy and status with one simple blow, by moving his capital. Caen was rising like the glory of the spring sunshine after a snowbound winter. One day it would be the foremost town of Normandy, centre of law, government and trade, the seat of the Duke. When it was built, that was. Delays, delays! The castle was being given priority: turreted, stone-built, with curtain wall and strong, impenetrable defences, but the stone for the gatehouse had not been cut straight; heavy rain had flooded the foundations; men were ill from dysentery—malingering laziness, more like!

  “My Lord Duke?” Eustace’s wheedling voice roused William from his reverie. “No one with an ounce of sense in his brain, save for this particular Pope who possesses no sense whatsoever, would think anything of your minor kindred with this girl. The difficulty lies within the politics. I would consider that you are, in fact, to be congratulated.”

  Scowling, William slumped into his own chair. “And how, mon ami, do you work that one out?”

  Eustace toasted his companion with his goblet. “The Pope sides with the Emperor of Germany, who vehemently opposes Baldwin and Henry of France. If his Holiness Leo, ninth of that name, believes your marriage too great a threat to the present balance of power—as he obviously does—then you are clearly considered a man of potential danger.”

  Narrowing his eyes into crinkled slits, William dissected the theory. He had a point. By God, he had a point! “The possibilities that might arise from such an alliance are ruffling a few feathers, then? Bon! I shall do more than ruffle. Some plucking and roasting might be most pleasing.” William rubbed his hands together, called for servants to bring fresh wine, to clear the mess strewn across the floor.

  “I shall marry Mathilda, whatever Rome says. I am the duke here in Normandy, not the Pope. Let him see to his work, me to mine.”

  “And if he likes it not?” Eustace asked.

  William tossed his wine down his throat, aimed the empty goblet at the rounded backside of a bending servant. “Then he can go to hell!”

  They laughed, Count and Duke together, but then the Count, unlike William, could afford to. If he could no longer bask in the warmth of the Duke’s reflected glory, there were always other stars to follow, his new-born grandson being one of them. Always best to collect eggs in more than the one basket. His wife was sister to Edward of England; that king had no son of his own, no heir, save for the feeble Ralf de Mantes, his wife’s son by her first marriage. One boy was as good as another to be proclaimed heir…

  Eustace de Boulogne sat drinking and discussing plans with Duke William late into the night. He had negotiated this marriage and was held in high esteem by both Normandy and Flanders. A clever man, he was already working out possibilities for the future.

  Some would call his ability ambition. Other greed.

  28

  Canterbury—March 1051

  Inconvenient, for Edward, that two men of the Church had died within two months of each other. Difficult to accept that Eadsige, Archbishop of Canterbury, had finally succumbed after his long illness but Alfric Puttoc, Archbishop of York, called to God also? What could be the Lord’s meaning? If it was to cause as much trouble as possible regarding the appointment of two new archbishops, then the Almighty had achieved his aim. Too many people had too many candidates and opinions to proffer, and Edward was determined to hear none of it.

  Harold left his lodgings to attend Council as late in the morning as he dared. Sleet was making the prospect of the day ahead more depressing, snow within the next few days seemed an inevitability. This mid-Lent calling of Council irritated everyone from cleric to earl, but archbishops for York and Canterbury had to be decided—although given that the King seemed determined to have his own way, discussion seemed pointless.

  Edward was solving a succession of state problems with great economy, but whether his decisions were politically wise remained to be seen. Like his father, Harold was full of foreboding. He knew trouble for England was swelling beneath the horizon, as sensitive skin prickles when a summer storm threatens. Whether it broke out in thundering tempest or dispersed harmlessly on the wind, only the future would reveal.

  Last year, at Easter, Leofric of Mercia and his supporters had argued that the naval fleet was unnecessarily large and had called for the disbandment of the Danish mercenary ships, all fourteen of them. The Heregeld, the tax levied to fund their upkeep, had been unpopular, and with their commander, Beorn, buried in Winchester at Harold’s expense, there appeared no reason to retain the foreign ships. No reason, save for prudence, wisdom and the possibility of invasion, but Edward was under pressure to relieve taxes and he was inclined to listen too eagerly to poor advice.

  That decision had been a direct insult to the House of Wessex, followed within a month by Edward’s astonishing about-turn in allowing Swegn to return with full pardon. Mercy and forgiveness, he had professed, were the earthly tools of eternal salvation. Weakness, lenience and a lust for gold could be the downfall of kings, Harold had thought bitterly.

  After that terrible murder, Beorn’s Danish men and Harold with his brothers, sister and mother had vehemently declared Swegn nithing—nothing, a man outside existence. Godwine himself had been devastated, had remained silent and morose for many weeks after, his hair visibly greying, weight shedding from his cheeks and body. Swegn had fled abroad. He had not been missed.

  That was all in the past, for once Swegn had succeeded in purchasing Edward’s forgiveness, Godwine had with a father’s love for a favoured son welcomed him back, leaving the family bitterly divided. It was a shrewd move on the part of the King to disunite the Godwines from within, to cleave son from father, wife from husband. Adamantly, Countess Gytha had refused to acknowledge Swegn; and Harold had barely exchanged word with his father since, not even to introduce his fourth-born child, a boy, Edmund.

  Edyth was with child again, her time due towards the end of the summer. God gave with one hand, took away with the other. Tucking his chin against the cold, Harold walked the short distance from their lodging place to the Canterbury Guild Hall where the electorate council for the archbishopric was to meet. As he passed, he glanced up at the stone-built archway that led into the entrance courtyard of the cathedral of Christ Church, crossed himself and murmured a brief prayer. Their daughter was dying. Little Alfrytha was losing her battle with poor health. Harold closed his eyes. He had no stomach for this wretched meeting.

  Laying his sword and dagger aside, and removing his sodden cloak, he entered the Guild Hall. The meeting was begun, verbal battle already joined.

  “I will not be dictated to!” Edward cried, stamping a foot almost childishly in his building rage. “It has always been the prerogative of a king to appoint his bishops!

  “Of course, my Lord King, but we merely advise you to consider all options.”

  Harold recognised the weariness and exasperation in his father’s voice, Godwine was wasting breath; the King’s mind was set—the complacent expression on Robert Champart’s face made that clear.

  “Cleric!” Edward boomed, flagging his hand at the scribe sitting hunched over a desk, spread parchment to one side. “Make mark of this, Cynsige is to go to York, Spearhavoc removes from Abingdon to London.”

  Several gasps of disapproval from Council, Edward frowned at the noise. “I appoint my cousin Rothulf in his place.”

  Godwine, as senior earl present, was the only man with the courage to speak out, “Sire,” he said, struggling to hold on to his composure, “do you not consider Spearhavoc to have inadequate experience for a position such as London? He is your goldsmith…”

  Edward’s hands clenched around the broad, curved arms of his chair, the knuckles whitening as he leant forward, his snarl adorned with affronted rage. “I consider him suitable. Do you doubt your king’s wisd
om, my Lord Earl?”

  Spearhavoc is suited to the making of that precious new crown he has presented you with, and very little else, Harold thought sadly. Ah, Edward, you go the way of your father; bribery and subornation are chiming the better of wise judgement.

  “And Canterbury, my lord? Whom are you to appoint as archbishop in Canterbury?” asked the Queen abruptly. She sat on her husband’s right-hand side, her designated place within the Council of England, by the tradition and law of the Saxon peoples, Edith had contributed very little during the morning—indeed during the entirety of this two-day Council. Tired, lonely and bored, she trailed in Edward’s wake as if she were his barely seen, faded shadow. He paid no heed to her attempts at conversation, sneered at her suggestions for the simplest of domestic decisions—furnishing for the royal palace being built at Westminster, the co-ordination of colours for cloak and tunic. Edward was incapable of dressing with taste—yet he listened to Champart, eagerly sought his advice and direction. If she could not be wife to Edward in these homely matters, what hope had she of being heard in her role as queen? On this morning, as with many others of late, Edith found herself envying her mother-in-law’s retreat into retirement.

  “The monks of Christ Church have expressed a desire for one of their own,” she reminded her husband. “Their proposed candidate, Æthelric, is a good man.”