I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  Applause rippled through the admiring spectators as William put the stallion through its paces. “He is superb.” William dismounted and patted the animal’s neck. “He is certainly a king among his kind—I shall call him Solomon I think.”

  “For a stallion he also possesses an agreeable temper.” De Tosny beamed. “He is gentle enough for a child to ride.”

  “Indeed, he is!” On impulse William swung towards Mathilda, his arms outstretched to take his son from her. Robert yelped as his father lifted him, the sound rising into screams as he felt himself set on to the great beast’s saddle.

  “Take care, husband, he is a boy of delicate health.” Mathilda’s hand reached forward to reclaim the lad, but William brushed her aside. She did not care for this harshness in her husband, a side to him that was unpleasant and distasteful, but rarely did she personally witness his deliberate cruelties.

  “He is delicate, madam, because you coddle him. Hush, boy! Do not make such a fuss.”

  From the day of his birth William had not much cared for his scrawny son. His daughter, though a mere two years of age, had more mettle than did the lad. Mathilda spoilt the boy.

  The stallion snorted and began to prance at the unfamiliar noise. The terrified boy struggled, arms flailing and legs kicking. His foot caught William’s mouth, sending his father staggering, blood bursting from a dislodged tooth. Robert, no longer supported, tumbled from the saddle as the horse skittered sidewards, the scream of fear rising as the ground rushed up to meet him.

  Mathilda also screamed as she darted forward, distraught. She knelt on the puddled gravel, gathering him to her, stroking his hair as Robert flung his arms tight around her neck and clung to her? “Mon petit, my precious! Hush, hush.”

  “Damn the boy!” William cursed, dabbing at his mouth. “Is he hurt?”

  Through her streaked tears, Mathilda shook her head. “I think not, my Lord.”

  “Then why in God’s name does he squeal like a piglet about to have his throat cut? Has he no backbone in him, madam?”

  Furious with her husband, Mathilda glowered up at William’s great height from where she knelt. “He is but a child,” she scolded, “a small child who is afraid of such a big horse. Do you not remember being afeared of anything as a boy?”

  William was disappointed in his son and embarrassed at this contemptible performance. He needed a son with the heart of a lion, the strength of an ox. Not this mewling mother’s-weed. “I was never afraid,” he bragged. “I saw blood and faced death too often to offer heart-room to a woman’s weakness of fear.” He turned away from his wife and walked abruptly back to his Hall.

  He had not met Mathilda’s eyes. He had left her with the boy because she had looked at him and had known that he had lied.

  7

  Dives-sur-Mer

  The morning had begun warm and fine, with the tinge of late summer touching trees bearing the faintest traits of approaching autumn. The day’s hunting had been most enjoyable and rewarding for Duke William and his friends.

  “I would have a hawk such as yours.” William de Warenne said in open admiration as the bird perched on the Duke’s wrist spread his wings in a flutter of annoyance. “My own bird is somewhat aged now. I have had her almost three years.”

  “Then you are fortunate—many good birds become lost or ensnared.” William ran his finger down the bird’s soft breast feathers to soothe her. “She hunted well for you—the way she took that wild coney was a superb example of breeding and training.”

  Will glowed at the praise. Some found the Duke difficult, but he had always found him congenial; quick-tempered, bien sûr, but what man of worth was not?

  The second-born son, Will had soon realised that the family estate would pass to his elder brother and took the chance to improve his none-too-hopeful prospects by altering allegiance from his father direct to his duke. He was young, bold and daring, the sort of man that William was deliberately courting. Having distinguished himself in battle and shown especial loyalty, de Warenne had been rewarded with the castle of Mortemar and had become an especial friend to his namesake the Duke.

  He beckoned for a servant to bring up a wineskin. The day had been long and hot. He offered the skin to William first, who shook his head. Will put the spout to his lips, drank, some of the liquid spilling down his tunic as his horse unexpectedly side-stepped.

  Duke William bellowed with laughter. “By God, boy, are you so wet behind the ears that you cannot find your own mouth! It is the opening under your nose and above your chin. What a waste of a fine grape!”

  Grinning, Will passed the skin back to his servant and brushed ineffectually at the spreading red stain. “No matter, my Lord.” He chortled. “It will give me a good excuse to watch the laundress. They remove stains by covering them with sheep-fat soap and rubbing them against their bare thighs, did you know?”

  William’s next guffaw was louder than the first. “My friend, I am not in the habit of wasting my time beside the laundry tubs!”

  “Oh, it is no waste of time, sir. I regard it as expanding my education.”

  The party drew their horses to a halt at the crest of the hill, looking down along the wide beach that stretched mile upon mile along the coast. The sea, a lazy, uninspiring steel grey, ruffled against the shore. A fishing boat was making way into the estuary of the river Dives, the silver flash of her catch quivering in the laden baskets on her deck.

  Watching the boat, Will tried to imagine the feel of the deck as it rose and fell against the motion of the sea.

  “What is it like, out on the sea?” he mused.

  “Cold. Wet,” the Duke answered. “Out there, the Channel Sea can be master or friend; frightening enough to scald the shit from your backside, or so exhilarating that you feel like shouting your immortality to the four winds.”

  Will nodded, watching the gulls wheeling and screaming in their intricate patterns behind the frothing wake of the boat. Would he enjoy taking a ship out into those churning waters? He thought not, for his stomach had once tumbled with fear when crossing the Seine in wild weather.

  “England lies across there,” the Duke said with precision. “A country rich in wealth but poor in ambition.”

  “What is it like?” Will again enquired with interest. He knew little of England. That the king was named Edward and William’s aunt had been that same king’s mother. Beyond that only gossip. “They say the men wear their hair long, as a woman would, and that they are rowdy and prone to profanities, murder and drunkenness.”

  William glanced away from the horizon where clouds were gathering. Rain? As well he had decided to hunt today, then. Mind, he would have ridden out anyway, whatever the weather. Mathilda was still in a disagreeable mood because of that damned boy’s tumble. William had barely spoken to her this past week—he ruled all of Normandy yet had no authority in his own household. Ah let her coddle the boy as the poxed English did their weakling children!

  “They wear their hair long, oui, and do not shave the upper lip. Prefer ale to fine wine, ride shaggy ponies and, more often than not, fight their battles on foot. They have no stone castles or fortresses, their churches and cathedrals are wooden built, but their forests are green and abundant with game, the land rich for the growing of corn and the grazing of livestock. English wool is of the best quality. Even for the poor, the wool trade can make a reasonable living.” William stared out at that distant horizon. “England, Will, has much that I could put to a great deal of good use.”

  Without William the Bastard as its duke, Normandy’s fledgling aristocracy would still have acquired status, land and wealth, but the duchy would have remained under the control of the French King. Under William’s ambitious leadership Normandy was poised on the brink of autonomy. Opportunity was there for those who sought to win power and prestige by the use of the sword; all they need do was commit their loyalty to their duke
and his ambitions.

  Those who rebelled against him fell rapidly by the wayside, starved of favour. His friends were becoming the great and noted Houses of the future. The trick was to bind their fealty. A man was more likely to remain loyal if his accumulated wealth were to stay within his own family, passing from the one generation to the next. William had diplomatically extended the granting of titles and, simultaneously, created hereditary rights. It was always possible for a dog to turn and bite his master, but if the dog was fondled occasionally, allowed to sleep by the hearth and fed well…The structure of a feudal society that was still, as yet, in a state of development, was, under William’s policy of securing loyalty, beginning to solidify. Serve William as sworn liegeman, receive in return his patronage and protection, and hold his land. The problem: Normandy was but a small corner of France and land was already in short supply. England’s acreage would solve the problem.

  England. “I will never forget the debt I owe Normandy for the shelter and kindliness she gave me,” Edward had said. He had promised to consider William as his heir. Part of the agreement had been for Edward to wed his sister—but that was immaterial now, for the King had not, after all, set aside his wife. There was some nonsense that a new king had to be elected by agreement, the most worthy man being chosen…William had discarded that trifling detail. He would be the most worthy when the time came.

  The Duke gathered up his stallion’s reins, turned for home. The hunting had been good, now his belly announced that it was time for dinner and he fancied lying with his wife this night. She might be angry with him, but would not say no. No one said no to William once his mind was set.

  He flipped his hand towards the English coast that lay somewhere beyond the cloud-grumbling horizon. “You may one day take that ship to England, Will, my friend. When Edward has gone to God and I am asked to take his throne.”

  8

  Budapest

  When the wind blew from the north the settlement froze with the cold. When it came from the south-west everything would dry and wither. This August had been hot, but the wind had stayed in the south-east and the occasional fall of refreshing rain had kept a greenness to the fields, the streams and rivers at a reasonable height. Last year, and the year before that, drought had scorched the thirsty crops and then torrential rain had washed away anything that had struggled to survive. Clouds were forming in heaped, lazy banks over towards the distant mountains. Ædward wondered if the summer storms were to come again this year, to destroy what little they had managed to grow in the spent soil.

  One more year of bad harvest and the settlement would be finished. Already the old were weak and thin, the young malnourished. He rested his broad hands on the door lintel. What to do? What best to do?

  Behind him within the house place, the sound of the loom weights clicking together distracted him a moment. Agatha enjoyed her weaving, but even the wool from the sheep had been of poor quality this shearing. Edgar was playing with the hound pups, evidently too close to his mother’s feet, for Ædward heard her sudden scolding and then movement as the lad ran out through the doorway, ducking under his father’s upheld arms, the pups tumbling in a litter of wagging tails and joyful barks along with him.

  Ædward caught at his son’s shoulder as his skidded past, his hand grasping his tunic.

  “Now then, my mischievous lad, what have you been up to? Playing with your hounds near your mother’s loom again eh? Tsk, she’ll peel your backside one day!”

  Edgar was four years old. He ought to be a chubby, well-grown, merry boy, but he was not. He was small and thin with a serious expression. His elder sisters, too, were both solemn-faced, slender girls. Slender? No, like their mother they were bone thin, lacking food to swell the flesh on arms, legs and face.

  Ædward squatted before his son, staring into the boy’s blurred face. His sight was dimming; soon, he would lose what little vision he had. What could he do for his family then? Already it was hard to grow the crops, to hunt for game; to be ready with spear and sword when the riders came thundering over the plains on their shaggy ponies to plunder and kill what little there was.

  “Both my grandfather and father were kings, did you know that?” he asked his son, who stood with his thumb in his mouth, staring back, blankly, at his father.

  It frightened the boy when his papa began to talk of when he had been a child of almost the same age. Of when he and his brother had been huddled into a big dark boat and taken down a river called the Ouse, from somewhere called York. He knew neither of them, assuming they were other names for the river that ran beside the place his mama called Budapest. He had been there once and had not liked it much, for there were too many people and too much noise.

  “We had to escape, my brother and I, for the new king, Cnut, was intending to kill us. For many years we wandered from one place to another, seeking shelter where we could. Then we went to Kiev and found service for our spears beneath the grand prince—oh, I was almost a man grown then, no longer a lad, like you.”

  Edgar’s eyes swivelled to the four hound pups who had found an old rag of some sort and were tearing and tossing it. He wanted to join in the game.

  “My brother died fighting for the prince, but I was fortunate enough to meet with your mother, the daughter of another prince, the brother of the Emperor of Germany. I married her and by and by, when my fighting days were over because of my failing sight, we came to live here, to farm this fickle valley.”

  “Oh, for the sake of God, Ædward, look at those damned dogs!” Agatha had come from within doors and realised at once what it was the dogs were playing with. She ran forward, shooing with her hands, lunging for what had been her husband’s only decent cloak. “You sit there repeating those endless old stories and let the whelps shred your only good cloak! Ædward, I despair of you and this wretched place!” Suddenly she was crumpled to the ground, her face buried in the chewed rag, sobbing.

  Ædward went to her and set his arm around her heaving shoulders. “Your discontent has grown each day since that messenger arrived. I am thinking that perhaps we ought to pay heed to the offer he brought us.”

  Agatha looked up, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. She was twenty-five years old and felt as if she were fifty. Her husband was not much her senior, thirty-six years, yet he too looked like an old man. The wind did that to you, of course, this persistent wind that weathered soil, tree and skin alike.

  “I do not know if we should accept your kindred’s offer of returning to England. We know nothing of Edward, of any of them. England shunned you. She lifted not a finger to help—until now. All of a sudden you are invited to return because there is no one else of the royal line? Can we believe that as the truth?” She lifted Ædward’s hands, pressed her lips against his wrinkled knuckles. “What use would you be to them, husband? You have not fought in more than ten years, you cannot see the spear you hold in your hand, to make no mention of the target you aim for. For all it pains me to say it, they will never deem you worthy of anything once they meet with you.”

  Ædward turned his hands over to hold her fingers firm within his own. “Then you would rather stay here, in this wilderness, to die?”

  She lowered her gaze, closed her eyes, shook her head. No.

  “I have been thinking much on it. For me, no, there is nothing that I can give England, nor little that Edward can offer me in return, except for one thing. Hope. Hope for a better future for our two daughters and our son.”

  “He is a child, they will not want him.” Agatha snatched her hands away and lunged to her feet, throwing the ruined cloak to the dogs who waited, tails wagging, a few yards away, Edgar squatting with them, his arms tight around the black and tan bitch.

  Moving to grasp at Agatha’s shadowy figure, Ædward missed his first attempt, caught hold of her arm at the second.

  “Do you not see? They need to find a man to be king after Edward.
He is not old, he may live for many years yet—long enough for our son to grow. They have indicated that they are willing to offer us any form of safe conduct that we request—all we need do is stand firm for what we need for ourselves: an agreement of noble marriage for Margaret our eldest and the title of ætheling to pass to my son. For Edgar, Agatha, we must go to England. For Edgar, not for me.”

  “But, fool of a man, they will not take him without you.”

  “Of course not, but they do not know what they are getting with me. Unless we tell them, how will they know?”

  At last a smile wavered at the corners of Agatha’s lips. She put her hand to Ædward’s chest, patting her agreement. “Anything,” she said, “would be better than remaining here.”

  Edgar buried his head into the soft fur of his favourite bitch. He did not understand much of what his father and mother had said this day, or during the past two, since that man had come with word from this town called England. It was bigger than Budapest, they had said. If he did not like Budapest, then he would not, he supposed, like England. Nor did he like this talk of going to see a king. This king in England had tried to kill his father and had set him in a dark boat that had been pushed out into a river. Edgar did not think he would like a king who tried to murder children.

  9

  Gloucestershire

  The day was bright and warm, the air suffused with the scents and sounds of a drowsy summer: warm earth, the sweet, heady smell of hay, pollen and clover; lazy bees about their plundering of nectar; cattle lowing in the water meadows; ewes calling to their growing lambs.

  An idyllic day, except the King was in a belligerent temper and everyone else was sick of being camped here beside the ferry at Aust on the bank of the river Severn.

  Strolling along the horse lines, Harold tugged an alder twig from a tree and began idly stripping the leaves, playing that childish game: she loves me, she loves me not…From the far bank a fish leapt for a fly, leaving the spread of ripple rings. His eye caught the brief flurry of bright blue as a kingfisher darted through the darker shadow of trees.