I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  “Lady?”

  She flinched, jerked her head to look quickly at the man who had come up behind her, looked into a weather-browned and wrinkled face. He smiled, apologising for startling her. Ednyved ap Davydd, seneschal to Gruffydd. They had met when first her father had come to Wales in exile and then again at that wedding ceremony four days past. Ednyved was an old man, as craggy and worn as the hills. The Snow Mountain carried a crest of white; so too did he.

  “Lady, the hour grows late and I am too ancient a man for carousing into the small hours of the night. The heart is willing, but…” With a wry smile he indicated the staff he leant upon to aid his walking and rubbed at the joint-ache that swelled his knee. “Merry-making with wine and song is, alas, a pastime for those with a younger spirit. I am away to my bed, I bid you a good night.” His crinkled smile reached into his speedwell-blue eyes as he took up her hand and placed a light, respectful kiss on her fingers. And then he said, so quiet that she barely heard. “I served under your grandfather. I, and many of my kind, loved him well. You have the look of your mother about you, but you have your grandfather’s eyes too, lass. There are those of us who are hoping you have also his spirit and his courage.” His solemn, insistent gaze met with hers as she realised his meaning. “We need one of his line to rid Wales of the traitor who killed him.” He let go her hand, bowed and was gone, walking, despite his age and world-weary bones, with dignity from the Hall.

  Gruffydd, sitting next to her, had not noticed Ednyved take his leave, nor had anyone else, for a new barrel of barley-ale had just been opened. The wise old seneschal had timed his exit well.

  She rose from her seat, dipped a reverence at Gruffydd. “I am weary, my Lord, I shall await you in our bed.”

  He waved his hand at her without pausing from relating a lengthy tale of bravado to her father, barely noticed her leaving.

  With fortune, Alditha thought, he will be too drunk to find his way to the stairwell, let along the chamber above.

  A calm had settled over her, coupled with an iced hardness that had wreathed itself around her heart. There were others, then, who remembered and who despised Gruffydd for what and who he was. Who were waiting their opportunity for revenge, to be rid of him.

  The emptiness of isolation evaporated. That opportunity, she vowed as she climbed the wooden stairs to her bed-chamber, would come. She would make it come.

  15

  Falaise—August 1060

  On such a hot and humid day, Mathilda had elected to take herself and the children out beyond the castle walls and sit beneath the shade of the trees beside the river. The baby went too. Stripping her of her close-wrapped linen, Mathilda laid the three-month-old girl on her back on a blanket, let her kick and gurgle, her little fists waving at the glittering patterns of sunlight that flickered through the leaves. Cecily was perhaps the sweetest of all her children, but then the youngest always was. Three boys and two girls—if their next child were a girl also, that would balance the way of things so nicely.

  Rufus—“red-face”—had remained as a family nickname for young William, three years old now and a sturdy lad, determined to help his two elder brothers catch the tiny fish that darted through the water reeds along the river edge. They already had plenty in their bucket, every so often carrying it over to their mother to show her their prowess.

  Mathilda was a content woman. Beautiful children, a loyal husband—she rarely thought of his darker side, his ruthless streak. To crown her contentment, the silly squabble with the papacy about the legality of their marriage was at last ended. Mind, for the past few years the interdict on Normandy had paled into insignificance beside the backbiting in Rome itself over the election and reelection of a new pope.

  “Mind you do not lean too far over, chéri Mathilda called to five-year-old Richard with an indulgent smile. “The river runs shallow here at the edge, but is deep to the centre.” She turned her attention back to Agatha, kneeling beside her, the tip of her tongue peeping from between her lips as she sewed a few more stitches of embroidery along the two-inch-wide strip of braiding. The pattern was simple, but demanding for a six-year-old not yet dextrous with her fingers. For a second time Mathilda helped her daughter unravel a knot in the thread, and then the baby, Cecily, began to cry. Mathilda picked her up, cradling her in her arms, rocking her and crooning a lullaby.

  Richard was the intrepid one of the three brothers, ever eager to explore, to seek adventure. It was he who would be found trailing in the wake of soldiers patrolling the castle walls or taking close interest in the men-at-arms’ archery, sword and lance practice. Already he had demanded his own pony and a wooden sword. Bored with kneeling on the grass beside the river, Richard pulled off his shoes and stockings and, tucking his tunic high into his belt, slid into the water. He waded in a few feet and beckoned to his brother. “Come on, Rob, come on in. Look, the fish think my legs are reed stalks! No, not you, Rufus, you’re too little.”

  Rufus, who had already begun to pull off his leather shoes, chewed his lip, a wail of protest hovering. “You stay there on guard.” Richard advised hurriedly, “watch that no one steals our fish or well have nothing to eat for supper tonight.”

  It worked. Padding, one shoe on, one shoe off, over to the bucket, Rufus squatted down before it, intent on his important task. He was not certain that he could eat these wriggling fish for his supper, but if his elder brother wanted fish, then he would defend them valiantly against any thief.

  The eldest boy, Robert, still sat on the bank. He shook his head. Mama had said the water was deep and he was not enthused by the thought of cold, clammy fish brushing against his skin. He shivered. What if there were other things in the river—eels, for instance? He was frightened of eels; they looked too much like snakes. At seven, and as the eldest, he thought perhaps he ought warn his brother of his foolishness. Rivers were dangerous places—Mama had told him so. “You come out, before Mama sees. She’ll not be pleased that you are in the water, it’s dirty.”

  “You’re scared!” Richard taunted. “Frightened of getting wet, are you?” He scooped water into his hands and sent it splashing over his brother. Tunic, hair and legs soaked, Robert ran to Mathilda, thrust his arms around her stout waistline and buried his face in her skirt.

  “What is the wretched boy weeping about now?”

  Mathilda looked up at the sound of the voice approaching through the trees and squeaked her joy. Thrusting the baby into the nurse’s hands while disentangling herself from Robert’s distraught clutches, she ran to meet William, her arms outstretched, happiness lighting up her face.

  “Oh, blessed Mary, you are returned! How long have you been back?” The questions came fast as she embraced him, her hands exploring his chest and arms—“You have come to no harm, there is no injury? Oh, but I have worried these months while you have been away at Thimert. Is the siege ended? Tell me it is and that Henry has ceded your rights to the castle!”

  William took hold of both her hands to still their fluttering over his body, grinning boyishly at her. He was thirty-two years old, but felt and looked ten years younger.

  “Oui, it is over, but more than that, this bickering between Normandy and France is ended. Completely and totally ended!”

  Mathilda’s eyes widened. “Then you have made peace? Oh, I am so delighted!”

  William clamped his strong hands to her waist and twirled her around as if she were one of the children. “Non, ma belle, I have not had to make peace—Henry is dead. His boy son, Philip, is king. There will be no more fighting, Normandy is independent. A child could never threaten me!”

  Her hands on his shoulders, her feet dangling several inches from the ground, Mathilda stared at her husband in disbelief. Could this be true? Was it all, really, over? “No more fighting? No more wars?” A smile of sunburst radiance spread across her face. “Oh, William, I need no longer fear for your life!”

  Her hu
sband set her down and scratched at his ear. It would not quite be like that; Geoffrey d’Anjou still prowled along the borders but, according to rumour, he was ailing. Brittany too was never a safe entity. He said nothing, though, allowed her the small pleasure of revelling in the thought of a peaceful future.

  16

  Gloucester—December 1062

  On behalf of the King, Harold stepped out from the warmth of the Hall to speak to the messenger. Within, the Christmas revelries were under way, a chance for feasting, dance and song, trials of strength, games of wit or cunning. Out here, in the quietness of the courtyard three hours after dark, the frost was setting hard, the rim of ice in puddles and hollows cracking beneath Harold’s boots as he ran down the steps and crossed the courtyard. The messenger was a Mercian man, wearing the badge of Ælfgar at his shoulder.

  “Where is your lord?” Harold enquired brusquely, eyeing the heaving breath of the man’s mount, the way it was not resting weight four-square on its offside foreleg. He bent down, lifted the hoof. No shoe, the nail holes torn, the wall of the foot ragged and the sole bruised. “Ælfgar ought to have arrived yester-evening. The King is vexed that his Earl of Mercia has not appeared at his Christmas Court.” Ælfgar. That whore-poxed man was trouble. If he was contemplating running off into Wales yet again…

  Since the summer of 1058, the peace had more or less lasted across the borders between Wales and England. Four years ago Ælfgar had turned traitor to England and joined with Gruffydd by marrying his daughter to him. Hah! But for how long had the two whoresons run together? Six months? Seven? They had not discovered, in England, exactly what had happened to break the union but they could guess. Ælfgar had quarrelled with his son-in-law—Gruffydd being overpossessive with spoils of war. Typically Ælfgar had jerked his fist in the air at Wales and returned to Edward’s court pleading for another pardon. And, typically, Edward, soft-livered fool that he was, had granted it. Harold would have told Ælfgar to go sail a leaking ship. He sighed as he examined the horse’s injured foot.

  So peace, aside from minor raiding, had held. Mind, that was probably more because Gruffydd had been busy fighting among his own kind, trying to keep his head attached to his shoulders. Once he had sorted out the differences between those of the Celtic blood, he would be dipping his greedy paws into England’s wealth again. And Ælfgar would again decide Wales offered him a better profit than did England.

  “So?” Harold repeated, standing legs spread, arms folded. “What is Ælfgar’s excuse for failing to attend the Christmas summons? I trust it is good enough to warrant laming a decent horse.”

  “My Lord Wessex,” the messenger stammered. “Ælfgar is dead. Three days ago his horse stumbled and he fell. His neck was broken.”

  ***

  King Edward’s shocked cry of disbelief brought the boisterous game with the water-filled pig’s bladder to an abrupt halt. Gyrth Godwinesson, in possession of the “pig,” had been about to attempt to toss it through the willow hoop dangling from the central roof beam. He paused, his arm upstretched, his head, like everyone else’s, swivelling towards the King.

  A moment before Edward had been cheering and clapping, urging his chosen team, captained by Tostig and winning by four goals to three. Gyrth’s opposing players had captured the trophy, had manoeuvred their way with ducked heads, shoving elbows and kicking feet through the rough jostle of players to the hoop, unaware of Harold bending to whisper in Edward’s ear.

  Something was wrong; silence ripped through the Hall to hang suspended and expectant, like that willow hoop. Unashamedly, tears began to flow down Edward’s wrinkled cheeks, his fingers automatically reaching out for the comfort of Edith’s hand as she sat, as often she did of late, on a stool at his feet. Harold was whispering to both of them; she shook her head, patted Edward’s hand. The news was bad, that was plain.

  Edward, too shocked to speak, motioned for Edith to break the news, A speculative rustle was creeping across the Hall like a spreading marsh mist. Edith stood, her eyes drawn to the two young men frozen in their stance marking Gyrth. Eadwine and Morkere, Earl Ælfgar’s sons. A pair of most handsome lads, Eadwine the elder at fifteen, Morkere a year younger.

  Edith stepped down from the dais and walked across to them. “News has come. Your father is dead.” And she told them of how and when.

  Stirred so easily by joy or sorrow, Edward had stumbled, weeping, after her. Unexpected death ever shocked him, particularly now he was nearing his fifty-third year on this earth. He caught hold of Eadwine’s shoulders, embraced him. “My dear boy! I am devastated for you. It is such sudden, tragic news!”

  How could Eadwine answer? With a lie, the truth?

  Morkere, standing a step or so behind his brother, saved him the trouble of deciding. “Thank you for your condolence, but my father was a dog turd who ought to have been thrown on the dung heap at birth.”

  Edward’s tears ceased; his mouth opened, appalled.

  Glowering at his brother’s tactlessness Eadwine hastily interrupted, “My father had no love for us, Sir, nor we for him. He was only concerned with furthering his own interests. We—myself, my brother Morkere and our sister Alditha—were nothing to him except useful stepping stones if he needed to cross a river.” The lad looked around at the men and women of the English court: nobles, merchants, guildsmen and revered elders; the two Archbishops, Ealdred of York and Stigand of Canterbury; the lesser clergy of the Church. He snorted his contempt. “I doubt there is one man or woman present in this Hall who will grieve for his going.” He indicated his brother who came forward to stand beside him. “At last we are free of him to serve you, my Lord King, as we wish, and as our grandfather wished. With honour and loyalty.”

  Spontaneous applause began to ripple, then spread like a bore-tide from hand to hand. Edward was weeping again—he truly had no control over his emotions—was, in a choking voice, ushering the two young men to come join him on the royal dais.

  Tostig appeared at Harold’s shoulder, “So Mercia’s earldom falls vacant, I doubt Edward will give it to Leofwine or Gyrth.”

  Harold’s low laugh was mocking. “That he will not. We already hold all else of England between us!” Through narrowed eyes he watched the King making a fuss of Ælfgar’s sons, ensuring they had wine, were offered food. A moment before he had hardly noticed their existence. “No, my brother, Eadwine has just seen to it that he gets Mercia for himself. That was quick thinking neatly done. The eldest lad appears to have more of a brain in his head than his damned father ever had.”

  The disrupted game set aside, the occupants of the Hall turned to other entertainment. The mead barrels still contained much of their honey-sweetened amber liquid, the jugglers and acrobats began performing at the far end of the Hall. Gyrth and Leofwine Godwinesson pushed their way through the tumble of gossiping groups to join the two elder brothers. When Leofric had died and Ælfgar had claimed Mercia, Gyrth had been content with the giving of East Anglia and Essex, but Leofwine, who had been awarded Hertfordshire, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire, had always hoped for more.

  “How ambitious is he, I wonder?” Leofwine asked Harold. “And what is there for Morkere? I am not prepared to give up land for his benefit, I hold next to nothing as it is.”

  Gyrth solemnly nodded his head. “We must not forget their sister. Ælfgar gave not a bent coin for her, but his offspring are close. I wonder what they think of alliance with Gruffydd, their brother-in-law?”

  “Aye.” Tostig agreed. “And what contemptible advantage will that poxed Welshman try to take of Ælfgar’s death? Cheshire and Shropshire are temporarily without an earl to rally the fyrd. The simple-minded land-folk will be confused as to whom they are to follow. You cannot tell me that Gruffydd will miss any opportunity to make mischief.”

  Wetting his fingers with spittle, Harold smoothed the lay of his moustache. That trail of thought ran similar to his own—for how long had they
been waiting for a God-given chance to strike at Gruffydd? “I wonder,” he said ponderously, “if the daughter has yet been informed of her father’s unfortunate accident? How long will it take Gruffydd to react to it? A few days? A week? Two?”

  Gyrth allowed a slight lopsided grin to trip across his right cheek. “You are planning something, big brother. I recognise that gleam in your eye. You are hoping to go into Wales.”

  Leofwine’s grin was broader. “Would this planning have anything to do with rescuing a fair-faced maiden from a Welsh dragon’s lair by any chance?”

  Harold slapped his younger brother between the shoulder blades. “Hah!” he chortled. “You remember the Lady Alditha also!”

  “How could I forget such a beauty?” Leofwine answered.

  Tostig took a moment to follow the ribald implication of his brother’s remarks and dampened the jocularity by saying gruffly, “Alditha, the sister of those two lads, is wed to Gruffydd.”

  Harold patted Tostig’s arm and began walking away towards the King. “Not so, brother. I intend to make her Gruffydd’s widow.”

  17

  Rhuddlan

  This time, there was to be no waiting. Strike hard and fast. Unexpectedly. They left Gloucester soon after midnight, Harold riding north with those of his housecarls who had accompanied him to the Christmas Court, mounted on sturdy British ponies bred for their intelligence and endurance. Setting a steady rhythmic pace, they alternated a stout walk with a jogtrot that covered the miles easily as night lightened into approaching dawn. Once every hour the men—and Harold too—dismounted to lead the horses for ten minutes, reaching Shrewsbury, a distance of almost one hundred miles, by noon.