I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  Mathilda thought her third son perfect—his father, peering at the infant sucking greedily at her breast, grunted that he was the ugliest thing he had ever seen. Laughing, she amiably dismissed his rudeness. “Ah William, you have said that of all our nouveau-nés. Children are often like shrivelled little grapes when they first come into the world!”

  “I do not recall the other three having such puckered crimson faces. This crab-apple appears overripened.”

  Judith successfully masked her shock at her brother-in-law’s insults. She would have been devastated had Tostig said anything so callous about a child, but Mathilda was unperturbed. She had long ago realised that her husband possessed no paternal feelings for her babies. It would be different when the boys were men grown, when they could fight at their father’s side.

  An uneasy silence had fallen among the group of men invited into the chamber to greet their duke’s son. Judith noted their discomfort; they too were dismayed at William’s apparent dislike of the boy. Someone had to say something.

  “What are you to name him?” she asked, closing the door behind the last of the servants and casting a professional eye over the reconstructed order of the chamber. She expected her brother-in-law to answer, but it was Mathilda who commented.

  “I think William would be suitable, do you not agree, husband?” She tipped her head at the Duke, who once more was bending over his son with an expression of acute repugnance. He straightened and shrugged with a gesture of indifference, replying that he was not certain he cared for the boy to be named after him.

  “I am not suggesting we name him after you!” Mathilda responded indignantly. “Why, the poor mite will feel daunted enough as it is by your high expectations. Non, this is for our dear friend, William fitz Osbern.” She regarded the man standing a pace or so behind her husband and held her hand out for him to kiss. With a polite bow, fitz Osbern raised her fingers to his lips.

  “Do you not consider that Will deserves such reward?” Mathilda asked her husband. “This tiny man sucking so strongly at my teat might not have been blessed with the good fortune of having you as his father, were it not for Will’s loyalty in protecting your back these past many years.”

  Judith was completely stunned at her sister’s pert boldness, but then, Mathilda had always had a mind of her own. A woman’s duty, Judith had often reminded her, was to be obedient first to her father and then to her lord husband. That lesson had obviously fallen on muffled ears. Judith, however, was measuring her sister’s marriage against her own. Tostig was a strict, rigid, no-nonsense man who, although Judith would never openly admit it, was lacking in imagination and humour. Mathilda would have died of boredom were she wed to Tostig. He might offer stability but William offered the thing Mathilda had always yearned for and which Judith envied: excitement.

  The Duke set a brief, chaste kiss on his wife’s cheek. “I shall consider your suggestion,” he said, a spark of amusement shining in his eyes. Though Rufus—red face—would suit him the better.”

  Mathilda beamed at him. Perhaps she alone of all people, save for his mother, knew how William thought and why he acted as he did. To no other living person could he open the window into his heart and soul, for to the deceit and wickedness of the world he had to show unwavering strength. There was no room for weakness. None other save perhaps fitz Osbern could be permitted to witness any crack in his defences that could make him vulnerable. Too many in the past had turned against William, had traded trust and friendship for lies and hostility: guardians, uncles, vassals—Henry of France himself.

  Despite the cruelty that she knew was within him, Mathilda had no fear of her husband, for she had given him her body and her heart. Whether he reciprocated with love, she was uncertain. If love meant treating her as his equal, not abusing her verbally or physically in public or private, sharing passion in the intimacy of their bed and never having need of another woman, then she was content.

  “Come, my friends,” the Duke said, clapping his hands together and rubbing the palms in a familiar gesture that signalled his desire to apply his mind to work not relaxation. “Let us leave the ladies to their women’s business and be about our own.” He clamped his broad hand on fitz Osbern’s shoulder as they passed through the door. “Of course, I shall expect the compliment of naming my son after you to be returned when your own wife is safe delivered of her first child.”

  Fitz Osbern guffawed outright. “It is already decided so, my Lord! William be it a lad, Mathilda if a lass.”

  “Outright fawning will get you everywhere, my dear friend!” The Duke’s laughter echoed back up the winding steps, amplified by the slabs of stone. This castle at Falaise was impregnable, one of his best-fortified.

  “Do you not think me the most fortunate of men, Lord Tostig?” William went on. “Think on it, we might have each received the other sister in marriage—it could be you with a red-faced shrimp for a son and me saddled with the empty vessel! ’Tis just as well the fertile woman came to the better man, eh?”

  Closing the door after the last of the men to leave, Judith reddened and bit her lip to stem the hurt. As well that she did not hear her husband’s reply; Tostig was never one to put loyalty to kindred above the need to impress.

  After patting the baby between his shoulders to bring up his wind, Mathilda handed the child to his nurse. She would feed him herself for a few days only, to give him the benefit of a mother’s first nourishing milk. Then the wet nurse could have him. Motherhood suited Mathilda well, but not the inconvenience of swollen breasts, dripping milk and the constant demand of a baby’s hungry belly. She watched with a critical eye while the nurse clothed the baby in clean linen and swaddled his body tight to prevent any risk of misshapen limbs, then laid him in his cradle. The child snuffled, grunting a mild protest at being taken from the security of his mother’s warmth and smell, but within moments he slept.

  For Judith, the tug of longing became almost unbearable. She would do anything, anything at all, to be blessed with the joy of her own child. The potions and charms that she had tried, the remedies and draughts…the hours on her knees before God’s altar…nothing had worked.

  “Perhaps a pilgrimage to Rome may help?” Had Mathilda guessed at the thoughts behind her sister’s stricken expression? “I have heard that many women pray direct to God for the blessing of a child at the altar of Saint Peter.” Her suggestion was well-intentioned, but her next was less tactful. “You are so thin, my dear. You ought to put more weight on your belly and buttocks, give your husband’s seed something to feast upon.”

  Judith blinked rapidly, fighting the overwhelming desire to weep. She was behaving like some first-wed young maid. What with the birth of this child and her monthly flux just starting…two lonely tears trickled down her cheek.

  “Come, sit beside me.” Mathilda patted her bed. “Have you considered,” she commented with a straightforwardness similar to that of her husband, “that your barrenness may not be of your doing? Tostig may be using a blunted spear?”

  Aghast at the absurd suggestion, Judith would have leapt to her feet, were it not for Mathilda reaching out to take her hand. “There is no fault with my husband!” Judith declared, embarrassed. “He is a man of passion and strength. How dare you think otherwise of him? Why would he be any the different from his brothers?”

  Soothing the unexpected ire, Mathilda responded with calm. “I meant only that there is perhaps another of his kin who cannot produce children. Queen Edith is also unblessed.” Mathilda shook her head with genuine dismay. “If it is God’s will for a woman to be barren, then so be it, but for a queen to fail in her duty? This is a dreadful thing.”

  It is a dreadful thing for any woman who desperately wants a child, queen or peasant, Judith thought swiftly and bitterly, but there was no point in saying so. Mathilda would not understand.

  Her sister continued. “There was something, I believe, about Edward
claiming to remain chaste. Do you not think that rumour to be nonsense? A ruse to hide the truth of her barrenness or his impotence, I would wager. William says that when the time comes and the English are seeking a strong man to succeed Edward, they will offer him the crown.”

  Judith sat quite still, her mouth open, no words coming from her astonished lips. Had she heard right? Could her sister be a little deranged from the trauma of the delivery? “He cannot become king of England,” she said with bewildered hesitancy. “He is a Norman. He would never be chosen by the Council or accepted by the people.”

  “I fail to see of what relevance his nationality is,” Mathilda said with derision. “Queen Emma was Norman. Cnut was Danish. My husband is the strongest, the most politically astute leader. On those criteria alone, he is the most suited. He has quite set his mind on becoming a king.”

  Judith lifted herself from the bed. Her sister had indeed changed since her marriage. She had studied her politics well—but they were Norman based, Norman biased. She had no concept of differing views or laws, no idea that English might not run parallel with Norman. “Your husband is a brave and valiant man,” she responded with courtesy, “but he does not carry Wessex blood. Besides, the boy Edgar is named ætheling. He is more likely to be England’s next king.”

  Mathilda regarded her elder sister with amusement. Poor woman, did she so little understand the drive of an ambitious man? Perhaps that was indeed the case. Tostig was a dullard when it came to the pursuit of power—and undoubtedly also in the passion of love. “Edgar?” she said with condescension. “He is of but tender years. My dear, even your staid husband would be more suited to wear the crown than such a child! William will be England’s choice.” Mathilda gave a single, sharp nod of her head; the matter was settled. She stretched. Her back and shoulders ached; so, too, did her head. “I think I shall sleep for a while, birthing is wearisome business. You are fortunate, you know, not to suffer all this tawdry mess and pain.”

  Hurt, tired, dispirited and still stomach-queasy from the beginning of her menstrual flow, Judith reacted to her sister’s patronising with uncharacteristic outrage. “Why could Tostig not be considered? He is a much respected earl. He has brought law, order and justice to Northumbria. And I might remind you that, unlike your William, he carries some blood of the Wessex line in his veins.”

  Mathilda retorted sharply, “He also has an elder brother—or have you forgotten Harold? William considers that Ædward’s death three days after arriving in London was no jest of nature.” She stared meaningfully at Judith. “To a man who has a secret ambition for a crown, Ædward’s going to England would have been most inconvenient.”

  Malice suddenly flared into Judith’s mind. How supercilious her wretched younger sister had become! She walked swiftly but with dignity towards the door, her rose-coloured wimple fluttering behind like a wind-filled sail “Except your hypothesis is fundamentally flawed. Neither my husband nor brother-in-law harbours such ambition. If anyone had a reason to arrange Ædward’s murder, as you imply, madam, then it would be the man who would suffer most at his continuing existence. I would suggest that we look no further than your husband. It is he, after all, who lusts for a crown that will never be offered him while an English candidate lives.” As a final parry she added, “Besides, he has Henry of France to deal with before he can look across the Channel Sea.”

  13

  Varaville

  Burdened with plunder and far inside William’s territory, Henry of France made his way towards the Dives, reaching the wide tidal river at the ford near Varaville, north-west of Caen. His contempt for Duke William was complete. Did the man have no care for the well-being of his land or its people? To save his own hide, was he prepared to cower behind his castle walls and allow an invading army to lay waste all this western area of Normandy without making a single move to stop it? Not one arrow shot from a bow, not one spear sent with its bite of death. No barricade, nothing. That William was soon to concede that the power of France was too much for him was becoming more apparent as each day passed.

  Once Henry had crossed this river, the whole of Normandy lay before him and William would have lost his chance to put up a fight against him.

  The French army numbered in their thousands, their rapaciously collected loot an extra burden to carry on the supply carts together with all the necessary baggage and war machinery. Crossing a river took time, for the fording places were few and the logistics of transferring so many people and so much equipment in safety, and quickly, across deep water was a headache for any commander.

  Only half the French army had successfully reached the far side when the tide turned and began to flood, making the ford impassable. It was then that Henry realised his mistake.

  William was not afraid, nor had he been hiding. He had been waiting. Waiting for an opportunity to use his few resources against Henry’s many. The King in his pride and greed had marched direct into the Duke of Normandy’s trap.

  With merciless ferocity, William attacked those who were left with inadequate defences on the western side of the river. Few escaped. The waters ran red, and when the tide turned once more, the dead and dying were swept out into the loneliness of the open sea.

  Defeated and broken, Henry fled, and neither he nor his ally Geoffrey d’Anjou would dare bring an army so far into Norman territory again.

  William was almost his own man. Now he could begin building his strength even further to a degree none expected. With no one to oppose him the Vexin, Mantes, Pontoise and the vast, wealthy territory of Maine could become his. He was undefeated—but not yet satisfied; ambition was a difficult lust to conquer.

  14

  Rhuddlan—January 1058

  Alditha, only daughter of Ælfgar, the English Earl of Mercia, could not understand why she was here. Wales, the people, the beauty of the mountains, she loved. Prince Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, who had murdered her grandfather and taken Gwynedd—Wales—for his own greed, she detested. Why, then, had she pledged to him her marriage vows?

  Gruffydd’s Hall at Rhuddlan was crowded, mostly with Welsh, but there were fifty or so of her father’s English followers present who, like him, had no qualms about taunting Edward. Ælfgar had disagreed with his king—again—not two months after Leofric his father had died last autumn. The old man had belligerently fought his debilitating illness, some said to make his son wait the longer to receive the earldom of Mercia—and like a charging boar, heedless of the consequences, Ælfgar had almost immediately quarrelled with Edward and been outlawed for treason. Without hesitation, knowing he would be welcomed by Prince Gruffydd, he had crossed into Wales, planning an ultimate gesture of defiance against England and Edward while assuring an alliance with the Welsh.

  At Holy Well, before the doors of the reed-thatched chapel, Ælfgar, without consultation with her or more than a handful of hours of warning, gave his only daughter in marriage to Gruffydd of Wales. Through her the two men were to be linked as more than friends and allies, they were to be kin. Seated, arms linked around each other’s shoulders, Ælfgar and Gruffydd shared yet another jug of barley ale and shouted their ribald comments that denigrated Edward and all his nobles. They were drunk, the pair of them, as were most men in the Hall and a good few of the women.

  Alditha sat beside her husband at the Prince’s table set upon the dais at the high end of the Hall, her head erect, hands folded in her lap. She had spoken barely a single word since Gruffydd had placed that wedding band on her finger. Her skin was pale, eyes fixed, unseeing. She felt nothing at the Holy Well as Gruffydd had lifted her up before his saddle bow and ridden off with her here to Rhuddlan, his men and her father’s galloping after them, whooping and yelling as if they were on the scent of the chase. Had lain rigid in Gruffydd’s bed that first night and those following, not caring what he did to her body, thinking of nothing but the black, despairing scream that echoed silently round and round her mind.


  She had adored her mother, a slender and serene woman who had told her of her homeland of Wales: of its soaring, dragon-breathed mountains, verdant valleys plunging with the white gush of waterfalls, its mood-changing skies. Told her too of its legends, its tales of heroes, magicians and poets. Alditha had cherished her part-Welsh blood, despite the other tales her mother had told, the more sombre stories of treachery and deceit, of lies, hatred and murder. Of the emptiness of an unhappy marriage and a life passed by without love.

  She understood, now that her father had abandoned her into Gruffydd’s iron-hard ownership. Understood how her mother had been traded to make an alliance. Understood how she too must once have fought the tears and the desperate wanting to take a dagger blade to her wrist…

  Although often frightened of her father, Alditha had loved him as a daughter ought to love her parent. More—she had adored him with the unquestioning innocence of a child—until that hot summer’s day when she had met and talked of horses with an Englishman called Harold beside the river Severn. She had scorned Earl Harold’s disrespectful ridicule of her father, had defended his honour—how stupid she had been! How naïve and trusting—or had she been deluding herself? Not wanting to admit the truth that her mother had suffered the loneliness and despair of a forced marriage? Had borne children to an opinionated, deceitful and arrogant man?

  In the hour before her marriage at the Holy Well, the deep pool of water sprung from the shed blood of Saint Winifred, Alditha had knelt and made her prayers to that blessed woman. But either she had not heard or had ignored the seventeen-year-old girl’s desperate plea: Alditha had become wife to Gruffydd.

  Her only hope, now that she could not escape, was that she might bear a son or daughter to whom she could pass on those tales of the heroes of Wales, of her mother’s—her—ancestors. Of Hywel Dda—Hywel the Good and Rhodri Mawr—Rhodri the Great. Through a son of hers their blood would return to Wales. She would tell, too, of others from further into the past—of Cunedda who had come, exiled, from Scotland during the time of the ending of the Romans; and of King Arthur and Gwenhwyfar his wife. Only those thoughts kept the will to endure alive in her mind.