Godwine’s assurances, of course, were dosed with a liberal scattering of salt. His promises were easily made, probably as easily broken or forgotten; but then, at least he was talking to the Londoners. The King talked only to Archbishop Robert, who had interfered too high-handedly with London’s trade agreements.
A few of the men standing there, dressed in their elegant cloaks, tunics, and chains and badges of office, guessed that trade had fallen dramatically these last two months directly because of Godwine’s ships’ pirating, but who cared for the trivialities? Edward had increased taxation, had imposed unpopular new regulations. Edward and his archbishop were not liked; Godwine had always been a friend of London.
With the tide in full flood, and keeping to the southern bank of the river, Godwine advanced safely through the London defences and dropped anchor once more. The Thames, more than one quarter of a mile wide, flowed with sedate unconcern between the exiled earl and his aggrieved king.
Godwine’s strength was greater than that of the royal command, his experience and ability superior, but he did not want to fight Edward, an anointed and crowned king. To do so would be dishonourable in the eyes of God, but it was his right to defend his own honour which had already been challenged. If he had to fight he would do so. The decisions of peaceful negotiation or bloodshed would be the King’s. Godwine sent a messenger across the river, politely demanding restoration of everything of which he and his son Harold had been deprived.
Edward’s reply was succinct.
No.
Godwine’s response was prompt and professional. He swung his leading keels across the river and encircled Edward’s fleet.
***
Edward sat at a table, slowly turning the pages of a book of gospels that he had recently acquired. It was a sumptuous thing, the illuminated lettering dazzling in gold leaf, vibrant reds and blues. So beautiful a thing was it that he felt reluctant to soil the corners of the parchment with his fingers. Robert was pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back, pausing every so often to squint down into the courtyard below.
Monday evening. Edward had retired to his Westminster palace, leaving his nephew, Earl Ralf, and Odda presiding over the land forces encamped between the two army roads of Watling Street and Akeman Street. Perhaps they would be more efficient than at Sandwich when they had been forced to flee before Godwine’s armada.
“Look at this page, Robert,” Edward said with a gasp of awe. “Is it not magnificent? How wonderful that the frailties of the human eye and hand can produce such a splendid and holy work.”
The Archbishop glanced at the page, murmured a mechanical answer. Was that horses arriving in the courtyard? He moved swiftly to the window, but could see nothing. To his annoyance, Bishop Stigand had been appointed by the Council as negotiator between the King and Godwine. He had been due half of an hour since. Not that Robert expected much of use from him; Stigand had made it no secret that he favoured the exiles and it was common knowledge that he wanted the position of Archbishop for himself—he would hardly be an unbiased envoy.
Robert snorted, unable to contain himself any longer. “You ought declare Godwine for the traitor he is and order his immediate execution.” Added with vehemence, “He has pillaged and murdered, raided England for his own gain like a common pirate. Have done with him, I say, and this whole absurd situation will be settled.”
Reverently, Edward closed the book. He did not want Godwine back, but nor was he content with Robert. The man had overstepped the border of late, had become more dogmatic and dictatorial than ever had Godwine. Besides, what choice had he? He was being undermined by a master tactician. Godwine had survived the rough storms of political manoeuvring for almost four decades and his experience was showing with a vengeance. Disposing of him was not a practical solution—Edward realised that now, doubted there was anyone with the strength to slaughter Godwine, save perhaps the devil himself.
Last year, the Earls Siward and Leofric had sided with the King against Godwine, hoping, no doubt, for a rise in their own fortune. They had expected public humiliation for their opponent, a heavy fine, a reduction in status, not exile. At the time it had delighted Edward, that feeling of ultimate power: if a king could so thoroughly remove Godwine, what hope had other men of England? He had refused to reward his earls, enjoying his pinnacle of dominance and authority, rubbing their noses in their inability to defy his will.
He had learnt much about being a king these past months. It took, he now realised, great skill to balance duty against self-preservation. Loyalty and respect were not to be commanded at will. It seemed incredible, to Edward’s political naïveté, that men who had so very often been at each other’s throats should now consider uniting in common cause. It seemed Siward and Leofric were contemplating agreeing terms with Godwine—at the least, if they were not thinking of committing their fighting men to the services of a rebellious exile, neither had they responded with any haste to Edward’s orders to mobilise the fyrd when first Godwine had been sighted off the coast of Kent. It had taken them all these weeks to march south with a mere handful of men; indeed, they had still not reached London, but were lodged a full day’s march away more than twenty miles to the north.
Robert’s mind, too, was dwelling upon the Earls of Northumbria and Mercia. Edward had summoned them to court immediately, to explain their delay. Robert tapped a fingernail against his teeth, gazing out of the window. The light was fading. This failure to obey a direct royal command was worrying. Without their combined armies of the North to swell the paltry few who faced Godwine’s able fleet, Edward would have no choice but to grant a pardon to the exile. If he were to fight he could be deprived of everything, crown and throne included. It had been done before, by lesser men than Godwine. And if Edward fell, then so, too, would he.
Leofric’s son had answered the summons, of course, but then he had been given Harold’s earldom, and had no care to lose East Anglia. The promotion of that boy had proven to be a disastrous move. He was an untrustworthy incompetent, no one liked or respected him, not even his father. Robert ought to have seen that before he had been so eager to take the lad’s proffered gold. Was there nothing he could salvage? Turning his attention from the window, Robert spoke of Ælfgar.
“I have approached your Earl of East Anglia with a suggestion of alliance between the throne and himself. His daughter is a comely child, so I understand. Marriage to her would bring the security we desire.”
Edward sniffed audible contempt. So Robert had said when he had taken Edith as wife. So Duke William of Normandy had promised. Both prospects had turned as sour as cream left to curdle in the midday sun. Attempts to curb Godwine had come to naught, and that poxed duke had married his sister to some peacock count of Normandy, not a month after her husband had died in a fracas during one of those interminable sieges that William seemed obsessed with.
“The girl is nine years of age and of no use as a wife,” Edward grumbled, referring to Ælfgar’s daughter. In Edward’s opinion Robert was always arranging this or that matter of importance without consulting him or taking note of his objections. It was Robert who had insisted on Godwine’s exile, he who had suggested placing Odda and Ralf in command of the fleet at Sandwich. As Archbishop, he might know his scriptures, law and history, but he knew nothing of war. Nor had he a keen eye for dress. Edith had occasionally, when Champart had not been around, been uncommonly useful, knowing the right clothes to wear for which occasion, matching colour and fabrics. A woman’s touch, Edward supposed.
“Nine is a good young age.” Robert forced a smile. “You can mould her to your liking.”
“But Ælfgar would become my father-in-law!” Edward protested. “He is but thirty years of age and a pompous, self-opinionated pain in the arse!”
“Nevertheless, I think you ought consider the marriage. He has, after all, remained loyal to you throughout the upheavals of this past year around.”<
br />
Aye, because his greed surpasses that of even the most devious of thieves, Edward thought, not bothering to argue further. He was tired of all this. Of Godwine, of Robert. All he wanted was peace and quiet.
Horses arriving. Robert started, caught his breath and strode to the door, bellowing orders that the arrivals were to attend the King without pause.
“Siward and Leofric are here,” he explained to Edward, pronounced relief in his voice and expression. “At last we can make use of all our resources against those who would overthrow your kingdom.” Rubbing his palms together, the Archbishop seated himself on a stool that faced the door, his pulsing heart slowing, rapid breathing easing. He had barely slept these past nights. If Godwine managed to claw his way back into power…Robert shuddered. It would be unfeasible for him to remain in England alongside that traitorous murderer.
Despite his orders, one quarter of an hour passed before the two earls entered the King’s chamber. They had taken time to remove grime from their faces and boots, to partake of wine and food. Robert sat upright, arms folded, teeth clamped. Why was it that these belligerent English defied him, over and again?
“You have brought your men?” Robert said, before Edward had chance to speak. “We need them to flank the river Fleet. Set them between the chapels of Saint Andrew and Saint Brigid, to prevent Godwine occupying the London Marsh.”
Siward made his obeisance to Edward, ignoring the Archbishop. His beard and hair were grizzled, grey-streaked as a badger’s pelt, his hands and facial skin wrinkled with age like the rugged bark of an ancient oak tree. “I speak for both myself and the Earl of Mercia, my King, We have come because we have been summoned, but we have come with the intention of listening and talking within the laws of Council. We would hear what Godwine has to say.” He turned his calm gaze to Robert and said with finality, “We have not brought our men to London, we have not come to fight, will not enter into a civil war. That may be how you Normans conduct your disagreements but we are English. It is more sensible to talk, not cut out each other’s throats or balls.”
Rage suffused red across Champart’s cheeks and forehead. The insult had stung hard and the implications were clear. “Then you too commit treason!”
“On the contrary, my lord,” Leofric said, “it is treason to seek to shed blood, not to talk of peaceful settlement.”
“And what of your son, of Ælfgar?”
“He has developed a taste for an earldom,” Leofric answered again candidly, “but he is an incompetent. I would counsel that he wait a while before being given such a privilege. If I can be assured of his being made earl in a year or two, than I am content.”
Robert’s fists clenched, the realisation slamming into his brain as if it were the blow of an axe. “By God,” he exclaimed, his skin draining pale, “you have already spoken with Godwine and Harold! Have reached agreement with them!” He thundered his disgust and disappointment by sweeping his hand over a nearby table, sending Edward’s precious book of gospels sprawling to the floor. With an exclamation of horror, Edward sank to his knees, scrabbling for the several pages that had fallen loose from the binding, tears of dismay pricking his eyes. Such a thing of beauty so wantonly damaged!
Siward lied without qualm or hesitation: “No, my Lord Archbishop, we have not. But we intend to. If those two worthy men will reach accommodation, we see no reason not to talk terms.” Turning his back, Siward knelt before the King, retrieved another loose page and reverently handed it to him.
It is a wise man who decides that peace is the better path than a futile war. It is a wise king who makes the right decision for the needs of his people and his country. Godwine is a bull-headed, bluff-mannered bag of self-blown wind but, unlike some who have risen to advancement while he has been gone, he also possesses integrity, honour and knowledge. Cnut had good reason to make him Earl of Wessex. Those same reasons remain.”
Siward and Leofric stared with calm certainty at the man who had, through his own efforts, been exalted into the highest office of the English Church. Much though both earls disliked Godwine, they despised these Norman interlopers more, especially Robert Champart, former Abbot of Jumièges.
He stood, looking down at the King, disgust rippling his nose and mouth. After all he had done for this snivelling little man. “And you, Edward?” Robert asked. “You agree with these imbeciles? Accept Godwine and you must accept his daughter. You will be forced to have Edith back as wife.”
Edward remained kneeling, the book, spoilt and ruined, on his lap. No, he did not want Godwine or Edith, but nor did he want Ælfgar’s daughter. What he did want was his solitude and privacy. And what was the saying? Better the known tricks of a devil, than the cunning of a fallen angel? Tenderly, he set the torn pages into their placings. Perhaps the book could be rebound by one who knew his craft well.
Robert left without further word. Within his own chambers he collected items of value, sent servants scuttling to pack what he needed. He had no choice but to flee England and go to Normandy, where Duke William would, he hoped, help him avenge this intolerable offence to his dignity.
Calling for his horse and guard to assemble in the courtyard, Robert ordered a further precaution to ensure his safety. He would take with him the hostages that Edward had demanded of Godwine, the two boys Wulfnoth and Hakon, as security in case these English tried to stop him leaving.
38
Waltham Abbey
Dawn had meandered over the horizon, cascading dew over the grass and overnight-spun cobwebs with a sparkle of fairy diamonds. Edyth stood at the edge of the manor courtyard, where the ground dropped away down towards the valley. In the pasture immediately below the cattle were grazing, their udders soft and empty after milking. She could hear young Stanwine whistling in the cow byre as he washed and swept away the detritus, and Mildred’s high-pitched scolding. No doubt the children were under her feet again, but youngsters always did love the butter churn.
What ought she do today? There was employment to fill a day three times over, but she had no enthusiasm for chores. The remaining blackberries needed picking before Michaelmas, there would be this morning’s crop of mushrooms to be threaded on string and hung for drying, the apples from the orchard to be stored in bran, the rose-hips to be boiled down and set in pottery crocks—and apart from the seasonal preserving, there was always wool to card and spin. She had started making a new gown, but had no inclination to finish the thing. What would be the point without Harold here to admire it?
There had been wild-running rumours since summer, tales of Harold and his father landing at various sites around the entire coast of England, from Northumbria down to the Isle of Wight. She knew of the success at Porlock from a letter penned by Harold himself—one of only three that he had managed to write since first he was exiled, or at least, that had been delivered into her hand. The rumours that their fleet had been heading towards Sandwich and from there to London were plausible, but where was Harold now? Had he indeed reached London? If he had, what had happened? Surely, oh surely, Edward must meet his senses and return their earldoms! Edyth shut her eyes to squeeze back the unexpected tears. For how much longer could she endure this separation?
If only she could open her eyes and see horses riding up the track, Harold’s housecarls, his banner—Harold himself…a horse whinnied loud and clear against the early-morning mist. She jumped with astonishment, half convinced she had conjured the sound. It came again and she stood, straight, tense, hoping, hoping…but it was only Whiteface calling for her stable companion, protesting at being separated from her friend. Guthram could not ride both of them down into the village.
She would saddle her mare and ride to her mother’s, take the two elder children with her on their ponies. Their grandmother would be delighted to see them, for she was so lonely since her father had died in the cold of last winter. At least Edyth knew she would, some day, see Harold again. For her mother t
here would never be another soft word or tender touch from her husband.
On the other hand her mother did not suffer this daily ritual of agonised hope and stomach-churning worry.
***
By mid-afternoon the sweetness of the morning had disappeared into drizzle. Edyth, enjoying her visit to her childhood home, postponed returning to her own manor. She would leave before evening set in, but the children were invited to remain. Without them, she and her escort could travel faster. By the sixth hour, with the rain persisting and the clouds louring heavier, Edyth was tempted to stay the night herself, but on the morrow she really ought to oversee the fruit preserving. Those silly serving girls were inclined to chatter and giggle more than work when their mistress was not within earshot.
A mile along the muddied lane, Edyth’s mare missed her footing and fell heavily on to her shoulder. Edyth, with a cry of surprise, was flung clear unharmed, but the rain had plastered the track, and her cloak and gown were sodden. Laughing to mask the shock of the unexpected tumble, Edyth scrambled to her feet as the first of the men reached her, anxious with concern. Assuring him that she had taken no hurt worse than bruised dignity, Edyth walked with him to inspect the mare. She too was mud-splashed, the fetlock of her near foreleg already swelling.
“A few weeks’ rest for you, my lass, I think.” Edyth said, patting the mare’s neck. “We’ll put a poultice of fresh dung and bran around it when we reach home, to bring out the heat.”
One of the men was bringing his own horse forward for his lady to mount and continue homeward, but the animal stopped rock still, head up, listening. Horses were approaching, the thud of cantering hooves and the jingle of harness echoing beneath the rain-drip of the trees. A male voice called out—a voice which surely, surely, Edyth recognised…She stood motionless, quivering, as if she were a deer scenting danger on the wind, her hands poised on the reins, one foot lifted to be boosted into the saddle…and then she was running, heedless of the mud and the rain. Running, her fingers grasping her riding skirt, lifting it high above her stocking garters to run the faster.
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