Harold! Oh, Harold was here! Blessed Virgin, sweet Jesu! He had come home!
39
Wilton
Yesterday had been Edith’s birthing day. No one of her family were there to celebrate with her, only the Abbess and the nuns of Wilton. Not that they were unwelcome, but she had not chosen their company. She was three and twenty, and had nothing to look forward to. Nothing save the loneliness of a discarded, unfairly discredited wife stretching ahead.
Talk about her father’s and brother’s raiding had lifted her spirits briefly, but since early September word from the lips of traders and pilgrims had dried silent. Dismally, she assumed their attempts had failed, for surely she would have heard something more by now?
She dipped her quill in the ink mixed from soot and honey and attempted to write more of her pleading letter to Edward. She had completed three sentences—oh, what was the use of writing again? Angry, she threw the goose-feather quill to the floor, the delicate shaft snapping as it hit the stone paving, and ripped the parchment to shreds. Wilton was a comfortable nunnery, she occupied the best guest room—but Edith wanted her palace at Westminster, her luxurious bed-chamber with its ante-rooms, the network of corridors, the rooms of state, the library with its musty smell of mystery and knowledge. The bustling kitchens where servants bickered and fussed to prepare royal feasts or a private tray of tempting dainties on those days when she had preferred her own company…the overflowing stores, the stables with the best-bred horses, the kennels with the wisest hounds—the fastest hawks, the fattest cattle…the list was endless. Oh! Edith wanted her crown back!
Why had her father and brothers been so stupid? Why had they not conceded defeat and bowed before Edward’s will last summer? All this misery for the sake of that poxed town of Dover. A matter of principle, her father had said. The King had challenged his authority and credibility—his honour. Honour, bah!
Edith stalked around the room, fingering candle holders, picking up her Bible, setting it down; kicking the crumpled ball of parchment under the bed. Had her father and brothers considered her position when they had refused to meet Edward on his terms last year? No. Had they realised how dangerous their addle-brained rebellion would be for her personally, as the King’s wife? Again, no.
No doubt her father had not thought Edward capable of setting her aside—but he had reckoned without the influence of that weasel Robert Champart? Archbishop? Huh! Bishop to the devil!
It had been he who had fabricated those vile lies against her, of course—how much gold had he paid into the purse-pouches of those men? They said she had taken a lover to her bed. Adultery? She was as virgin pure at the age of twenty-three as she had been at three—and she had told them so, those fusty, grey-haired old men Siward and Leofric, and the rest of Edward’s Council.
“My maidenhood is intact!” she had screamed at them as they dragged her from the Council chamber at Westminster the day after Saint Stephen’s day. “Let any physician examine me for the proof of it!”
She closed her eyes, swallowed tears. Never would she forget the fear and the humiliation of that dreadful, snow-grey day of winter!
Before the entire Council Champart had accused her, bringing in his vile minions to give testimony against her. She had laughed, denied it, stood before Edward and told them all how she could prove Champart was a liar, that this was a plot to be rid of her. Edward had sat with his head bowed, had said nothing as she told that his declaration of chastity was a falsehood, that he had no manhood in his loins.
Had they believed her? Probably, possibly, yet still she had been taken away, shut into a litter and removed from court to Wherwell Abbey, an austere and frigid nunnery where no one spoke or laughed, where the pleasure of reading or singing was forbidden. At least at Easter she had been brought from there, was now confined here at Wilton, where she had spent so many happier years as a child.
Confined. She had every comfort, every want or whim was granted, except for the ability to walk or ride through the gateway if she so chose.
Her letter was to have been another attempt to convince Edward her innocence. She had sent many similar entreaties; all had been returned, their seals unbroken.
Instead of writing, she would read. Taking a bundle of scrolled parchments from a wooden casket, she cast herself, stomach down, atop the bed and unrolled. Queen Emma’s last communication, sent on the day it was written and dated the first day of March. It was not her own hand, for her health had been failing—she had died, having made her peace with God, in the late hours five days later. Edith read slowly, studying the words that she had read so many times over. Emma had been blunt and precise, her dictated sentences reading more as a list.
Do nothing to give ground for reproof.
Insist on your innocence with persistence, but with dignity. That which is repeated often is eventually believed.
The weakness of your enemy can be turned to your strength.
My dear, I have done all I can for you. You hold your future in your own hand. My blessings. May God and His Lady be with you, always.
That had been all. No farewell or intimation that Edith’s future was soon to look brighter—perhaps then, when the letter had been written, Emma had not known that Edward’s conscience was pricking him. One week after Emma had been laid to rest within Winchester Cathedral, Edith had been escorted from Wherwell to Wilton. Why, she had not been told, except she was certain that Emma had had some hand in it.
A novice tapped warily at the door: Edith’s blustering tempers were notorious. “Madam?” The girl’s timid voice quavered. “The Abbess begs you attend her. There is a man to see you.”
Edith rolled from the bed, abandoning her letters. “A man? Which man? Is he from the King?”
The girl shook her head. “I do not know him, Lady, but he is noble born.”
Tempted to tell the girl to convey her refusal, Edith decided against the idea. What else had she to do with the rest of this dull-dreary day? If Champart had persuaded the Pope to annul her marriage and grant Edward a divorce, did it matter whether she heard now or later? What did anything matter? In her more rational moments Edith knew much of her melancholy was unnecessary, for she was welcomed and treated with respect and sympathy at Wilton. Whether the Abbess would stop her if she attempted to leave, Edith had not tried to find out, for she was fond of her and did not wish to compromise her. Besides, she had no wish to be returned to the dour oppression of Wherwell.
Fetching up her cloak, Edith followed the girl from the guest quarters to the private rooms of the Abbess.
Horses of quality snorted in the courtyard, the breath and steam from their coats showing that they had been ridden hard. News of some urgency, then? Edith gave the men holding the bridles a cursory glance as she swept up the steps into the Abbess’s domain. There was nothing on saddlecloth or shield to identify them. Edward himself had not come, then, nor Champart.
She paused before entering and smoothed her gown. Gathering her breath and schooling her features blank, as Emma had taught her, she stepped, back straight, head high, into the room, A tall, fair-haired man sat with his back to the door, a goblet of wine in his hand. He rose as she entered, turned, and all Edith’s pretence of calm vanished.
Tostig, In the flesh, in the being! Tostig! His face was full-fleshed, his eyes sparkled, his moustache and hair had recently been trimmed. Fur edged his cloak, his tunic of the finest spun wool was edged in gold brocade . , , here did not stand a man condemned as an outlaw.
“Well?” he said, resting his fist on the sword pommel slung across his left hip. “Have you no sisterly greeting for me? It is all over. The King agreed terms with our father over a week since, on the fifteenth day of September.” He grinned, showing white, even teeth. “We are reinstated.”
Edith remained motionless, her expression impassive, Tostig’s words reeling in her brain. “And why then, may I ask,” she f
inally responded with hauteur, “has it taken you so damned long to fetch me from here?”
40
Lycia, near Constantinople
Throughout the day the sun had thrust its spears of heat through the half-shuttered window, beating down on to the man lying on the floor, ragged, unshaven and in his own mess of vomit and excrement. His face was burning from the sun and fever, but he had been too ill to move into the shade, no more than three inches from his filthy bed. Someone, one of the few men who had remained loyal, had brought him water. It had tasted foul and he had vomited most of it straight up.
Dusk had come quickly, the noises in the street below rising as the heat went out of the day and people began to emerge from their shelter. Was this how it always was, he thought, closing his eyes against the pain that engulfed his body. At the end, when death came for you, was it always this lonely and desperate? If this was punishment for all the wrongs he had committed, then surely he would be purged of sin by the time he reached God’s kingdom.
He heard laughter from the room below, the girl’s high voice sounding clearly through the thin floorboards of this stinking room. A man’s gruff answer. He could not distinguish the words. They had tended him at first, the innkeeper and his daughter, before the money had run out. His ring, cloak pin, sword and dagger, everything of value had long gone. His horse too, probably, with the fine leather harness and silk trappings. All the magnificent gifts he had bought in Jerusalem to take back home to England. The perfume for the women, the spices, the weaponry for his father and brothers. The casket of myrrh for the King, for Edward.
Swegn had no doubt that his father had redeemed the family name and fortune. He, Swegn, had pledged, before leaving on this long trek to the Holy City, that when he returned he would be a changed man. His family had never thought that he might not return. Nor had he.
He drowsed in and out of consciousness as the stars moved lazily across the dark foreign sky. At least now it was cool, but it did not matter for it was too late; his body was already growing cold. Swegn, the eldest son of Earl Godwine of Wessex in England, while returning from pilgrimage to Jerusalem to repent of his sins, was dead.
41
Winchester—April 1053
As the swallow or house martin would return to a familiar nesting place, Edith had returned to court as if she had hardly been away. Her father, however, had found it harder to adjust. He had never admitted—even to himself—the anxiety that exile had caused, the loss of dignity, coming so close to losing everything he had. He was no longer an adaptable young man. His hair was grizzled, his breathing more shallow. Twice since Christmas had the pains in his chest caught him off guard, so that he had groped for a chair arm, clutched at his breast, waiting for the agony that stabbed down his left arm to subside, the red dizziness in his head to clear.
Soon after the Christmas celebration at Westminster he had returned with Gytha and his two unmarried sons to Bosham. The winter cold of January and February bringing a despair with it, that wrapped around his heart like a rope, knotting and twisting tighter with each long, dark, melancholy day.
Edward had made no apology, no attempt to repair the damage that he and his Norman friends had caused. Had not sent after Champart to demand the return of Godwine’s son and grandson. They were with William at Rouen, so rumour said, although the Duke had denied it. Champart himself, after whining to William, had ridden direct to Rome, to reiterate his complaints against England to the Pope, who would, no doubt, listen with sympathy, but was, for all that, impotent to do anything to help. England was a wealthy and strong-minded country; Rome could not afford to alienate her, and Normandy remained under an interdict of papal displeasure through William’s determination to marry without Church approval.
News of Swegn’s lonely death had been a further blow to Godwine’s bruised spirit. The lad had had his faults and weaknesses, but he had been his father’s first-born. Hard it was to set aside the memory of the child in arms, dimple-cheeked, pudgy-handed, reaching out to tug at his papa’s moustache. Hard to forget tossing the boy as if to the sky, hearing his screech of delight as strong arms caught him, whirled him around in dizzying circles. It was always the memories of the child, of the sun-filled summer days that lingered when death came calling. Harold, Edith, Tostig, the other boys seemed unconcerned that Swegn would not return to England. Gytha had said no word, shed not a tear. They were careful not to say so within their father’s hearing, but Swegn’s passing had been a God-blessed relief, for his quarrelling and indiscretions had been the main cause of Edward’s contempt. With Swegn gone, the barrier could be, if not lifted, at least raised a little. Godwine knew all that, but still he missed and mourned his eldest son.
Easter and the holy festival of the Crucifixion and Resurrection. The King moved his court southwards, to Winchester, where his council and nobles were obliged to attend him. Lent had been as long and demanding as the bitter winter before it, the weather as dismal as the restrictions on food. The Easter feasting was always welcome, at least at the King’s table where the shortages from poor harvests and a hard winter had little effect.
The King’s Hall was not so grand as his new palace at Westminster. Seating at the trestle tables, set in their rows, was cramped and limited in elbow room. Table manners held good if men knew the eyes of the King were on them, but lower down the end of the Hall, where men of lesser rank were seated, the rules were not so rigorously obeyed. It was thought bad manners to eat if the hands were not cleansed in the proffered water bowls, for a platter was shared between two or four people, food served in communal dishes for each individual to select: flat loaves of bread, cheeses, pastries, joints of meat—a wing of chicken, pigeon or pheasant, cutlet of lamb or pork. To plunge an arm up to the elbow to search for a choice portion at the bottom of the bowl was considered distasteful; to scratch at fleas and lice, at sweating armpits and more personal parts and then take food frowned upon. But once the ale jugs had passed several times around the tables, who cared about the niceties?
Regard to good manners was the difference between the highborn and the low. There was no swearing or spitting at the King’s table; finger bowls were fastidiously used. Better portions of the tastier, more appetising dishes were served. But Godwine ate and drank only sparingly. Indigestion niggled in his stomach, his appetite diminished by the King’s determination to ignore him. On several occasions during the afternoon, Godwine had attempted to ask Edward again what could be done to negotiate the return of his two boys. The King had deliberately turned his back.
Harold was not particularly enjoying himself either. He had settled with ease back into the responsibilities of his earldom, but then Harold was younger than his father, and had his wife and children to motivate him. For their future well-being, more than the politics, he had fought his way home from exile. The safety of the two boys was bothering Harold too, however, and, like Godwine, he had been unable to attract Edward’s attention or concern.
“The King will not help us with Wulfnoth and Hakon,” Harold said, leaning towards his father and selecting another portion of roasted chicken. “I am thinking that Edward wants them kept with Duke William for reasons of his own.”
Edward’s high-pitched laugh tumbled from the centre of the table. Godwine glanced in his direction, nibbling at a meat pastry. There was no pleasure in sitting here, being forced to listen, yet again, to Edward’s repertoire of frivolous anecdotes.
“If William has set his mind on Edward’s crown, then it would suit him well to hold English hostages—my son—for it would be Wessex who would protest most loudly against his insubstantial claim.”
“It suits Edward too,” Harold added, “for he has a new chain to bind us with.”
Godwine sighed and set down the half-eaten pastry. Hostages, ah, hostages. So damned useful to those who would use their innocence to their own unscrupulous advantage.
“We will secure their release, Fath
er, when the time and situation are right.” Harold attempted reassurance. “Perhaps Edith can persuade him?” He flickered a glance along the laden table towards his sister. “She, out of us all, has come through the difficulties of the past month with equanimity.” He had not intended any malice in the remark, but the disparagement was unmistakably there.
His father said nothing. Edith had chosen her position as queen over that of daughter. If Edward was ignoring Godwine, then Edith, too, had decided that her father no longer existed.
Riding away from confinement at Wilton, she had shrewdly assessed her tactics for securing her future. Emma had seen the potential in the child and Emma had rarely been proven wrong. The weakness of your enemy can be turned to your strength. The Dowager Queen had known Edith would make good use of her wisdom. To make certain she would never again be removed or humiliated, Edith realised that she must make herself indispensable, must ensure that Edward could not survive without her. She could never capture his affection through her body, but there were other ways to bind him. His weakness was his self-doubt, his frail conscience and a desperate need to be loved by all. Her Achilles heel was her husband’s dislike of her father.
She began immediately upon her return to court by nurturing Edward’s vanity. She often admired his neatness of appearance, his self-restraint with eating and drinking, his depth of knowledge of scripture and history. She asked questions and listened to his answers with absorbed attention, soon discovering that it made him feel important to have her sitting rapt at his feet while he talked. As the new year ripened towards a late-come spring she had begun to discuss matters of interest with him, occasionally being mildly challenging. Lively debate was one of Edward’s favourite indoor pastimes, provided he always won any argument. It proved to be a game Edith was most adept at playing.
I Am the Chosen King Page 30
