He had seen the girl, Alditha, during the summer. Did admire her pretty face and enticing, slender body—perhaps more than a man his age, with a wife he loved and another official betrothal, ought, but then there was nothing wrong with looking.
Displaying good sense, Tostig held his peace, although thoughts of alliance or treachery tumbled in his mind. He suspected that Harold had discussed the possibility of a northern rebellion with Eadwine and his turd of a brother. Hah, it stood to reason! Harold was green-sick jealous, envious of his close friendship with the King, of Edward’s indication that he, Tostig, would be put forward as regent or successor, not Harold. How it must stick in an elder brother’s throat that the younger might stand a good chance of wearing a crown! Was it not already obvious that Harold was plotting against Edward? Courting the prospect of alliance with William of Normandy? Now this with Eadwine and Morkere, and openly taking side against his own brother!
“I say we ought to ride for Northampton, confront this rebel mob, hang the leaders and send the rest home after a birch thrashing.”
Gratefully Harold took a replenished tankard from the servant, savoured its soothing effect as the liquid eased down his throat. What he would really like was a warmed bed and a cold compress over his throbbing forehead. “And with what men do you intend to enforce this hanging and thrashing? You’ll not have the use of my housecarls for such foolishness, nor, I doubt, those of our brothers.” He glanced at Leofwine and Gyrth for confirmation, Leofwine readily shaking his head, Gyrth, perhaps a little more reluctant, but all the same agreeing that nay, their men would not fight. “Nor will you, my Lord King, commit men into what could, so easily, be misconstrued as a declaration of war?” Harold looked at Edward with an eyebrow raised.
Edward, in his extremity of rage, would have been quite happy to concur with Tostig’s suggestion, so it was as well Harold had spoken. He most certainly did not want—could not afford—a civil war. Reluctant to disagree with his favourite, Edward shook his head, laid a hand over Tostig’s. “I would not endanger your safety, my dear friend. A rabble can so easily turn ugly—those brutal deaths in York proved that.” Edward shuddered. Butchered, they said they had been. Tostig’s loyal men, his supporters and followers—Tostig’s men, King’s men. He twined his fingers in Tostig’s, squeezed them briefly in a gesture of comfort and relief. “I just thank God that you were not there.”
Harold drained his tankard. Said nothing. If Tostig had been in York, had been there all these past months, paid more attention to his earldom, his people’s needs and grievances, his duties, then this whole damn mess might have been averted.
Edward announced his decision: “Harold shall go, discuss the matter. Sort things for us.”
Tostig scrabbled to his feet, protesting. “My Lord King, no, Harold is in league.”
“Now, now, Tostig, my mind is made up. Earl Harold is very capable of smoothing ruffled feathers. He can negotiate a settlement and we can get back to normal.” Edward stood, indicated that the meeting was ended. “Come,” he said, setting his arm around Tostig’s shoulders and steering him towards the door, “my growling belly tells me that it is time for our supper.” He tossed a look back over his shoulder at Harold. “You will leave at first daylight, my Lord Earl? We shall await your return here at Britford.”
Harold, as had the rest of this small Council, had risen to his feet when the King stood. He bowed, ducking his head so that Edward might not see the expression on his face. The very last thing he wanted to do was leave his bed at dawn and ride to Northampton.
It was a waste of time anyway, as he had guessed it would be. The Northumbrians were adamant. They refused to take Tostig back and rejected the King’s command to lay down their arms and air their grievances through the royal courts. Offered, instead, their own ultimatum: eject Tostig from the earldom and England, or war would be brought against the King also.
Almost apoplectic at Harold’s nonchalantly delivered message, Tostig urged Edward to summon out the fyrd immediately.
And the rebels, in retaliation, advanced to Oxford.
9
Oxford
By the twenty-seventh day of the month of October Edward had removed his court to Oxford, intending to block the advance of the rebellion with the summoning of the fyrd. He had already his personal guard of 800 housecarls and with them the 300 or so of his Earls Harold, Leofwine, Gyrth and Tostig. But the English fyrd did not come. It was a freeman’s duty to serve an agreed number of days at arms, called out by the overlord to whom he paid rent or tax, summoned by the boom of the war horns. Earls Harold, Leofwine and Gyrth, flanked by lesser nobles, thegns and elders, however, refused to entertain what could, so easily, become the nightmare bloodbath of a civil war. The war horns had remained silent. No one, besides Edward and Tostig, cared to set South against North like cocks in the pit.
That it had been Earl Harold who first refused to comply with Edward’s demand to call out the armies of the South was not lost in Tostig’s vitriolic condemnation of his brother. Mistakenly convinced that he was sympathetic to Morkere, Tostig accused him of blatant treason before the assembled Council of southern lords.
“You plot with Eadwine and Morkere—why? To secure their armies at your own back when the time comes to take England’s crown for yourself? Is that what you plan, Harold?”
There were audible gasps of horror at such a vehement accusation. Edward himself cried out, shock on his thin face. Edith too gave a gasp, covered her mouth with her hand, stared, round-eyed and fearful. “Tostig!” she breathed. “Hold your silence, I beg you!”
Tostig did not see, hear or care. Harold had been instructed to negotiate with that plague-tainted rabble and what had he achieved for his own brother? Nothing! That’s what, bloody nothing, aside from allowing them to gather more strength. They were a mile from Oxford, 400 short of 3,000 men against the King’s pathetic few hundred A few hundred that would have been multiplied by five or six times had Harold not countermanded Edward’s order to the fyrd. Aye, Harold had done that—Harold. Was it not obvious why?
“What did you say to those peasants from the North?” he sneered. “Well done? Good work? Well soon have Tostig gone and the King down on his knees. How long, brother, before you lay claim to the crown?” Then, as an afterthought he added, “Is it for yourself you have encouraged this rebellion, or are you securing a future by working in league with Normandy?”
Harold’s face had also drained chalk pale from disbelief and a profound rage at his brother’s foolishness. He had been trying to warn them about Normandy these past months—yet arrogant fools like Tostig and their sister, and those complacent like Edward, had refused to listen. He had no wish to become king unless there came no alternative choice—that honour was for Edgar, the lad who carried the true blood of Wessex. He was not insensitive to the prestige a crown would bring, but he loved his family and his freedom. A king, even one as incompetent as Edward or his father Æthelred, had no independence or respite from responsibility. Royal power was an attractive cloak to wear, but it was one that weighted a man’s shoulders; privately he would be prepared to carry that burden if God decreed it must be so, but publicly he had wholeheartedly declared his support for young Edgar—and had made it abundantly clear that Edgar must rule as his own man, that there would be no toleration of either the Queen or Tostig acting as regent. Could Tostig not realise that it was precisely because of his contemptible rages and poor judgement that Harold could never back him for such a role? Christ Jesu, he had made a midden mess of Northumbria…to let him loose on England with a man such as Duke William watching like a hawk from across the Channel Sea! Harold eased his clenched fists, struggled to retain composure.
“I would remind you, brother, that the matter of the succession is not what concerns us here. We face civil war—brought about by your greed and crass stupidity. I suggest that the subject of who next wears the crown be set aside until
God decrees that our present king has no more requirement of it.”
“Set it aside? Ah, no, brother, ’tis top of my agenda.” Tostig stalked around the table, his finger pointing at Harold. All the grievances, the jealousies and petty hatreds that had niggled at his vitals since childhood exploded in his senses, sending judgement and reason into oblivion. Harold had always been the favoured one. The clever one, the successful. Harold had Wessex and wealth, respect and friendship. Why should it all go to him? He, Tostig, was just as capable. Was it his fault that others were not so enthusiastic about suitable punishment of outlaws and thieves? Aye, they all fell on their knees for Harold, the fools. Never looked beyond his charming smile and affable manners. What good was that in a leader? You needed courage and conviction. Morals and purpose. Was it his fault that men were so stupid that they could not see that these lazy good-for-nothing Northerners needed their backsides kicking?
He stepped closer to Harold, his finger poking at his brother’s chest. “You are so like our father, taking and taking, never considering how the rest of us may feel. How we are shoved aside and belittled.” He stabbed his finger again, harder. “Well, I am as good as you, brother, and when Council elects me king instead of this old fool we are saddled with, I shall prove it!”
The entire Council, save for Edward, were on their feet shouting, condemning, their anger unleashed. Harold too. He raised his arm, blocking that stabbing finger and thrusting it aside, clutched at the folds of Tostig’s tunic; gathering them tight around the throat he savagely rammed his brother’s head up and back. “Because of your contempt you have misruled an entire earldom. Have provoked rebellion and now you are advocating a war, a blood-bath of vengeance, for no reason but to salvage your injured pride. Yet you accuse me of treachery?” Harold shook him as a terrier would a captured rat.
Edith cried out with fear for her favourite brother, ran from her chair and began beating at Harold’s back with her fists. “Let him go! Let him go, Harold! Oh, you have always poured scorn on his achievements!”
Without releasing Tostig, Harold turned his head to stare in contempt at his sister. The accumulated years of bitterness had aged her, she was no more than six and thirty years, but appeared ten years older. Harold should have felt pity for her loss of youth, but he felt nothing for her. Nothing except an overwhelming loathing. She and Tostig had always run as a couple, wanting and whining for more and more. He would not, ordinarily, be cruel to any woman, but these self-centred, self-seeking, nest-feathering cuckoos had pushed him too far. “Tostig’s achievements? What achievements would they be, Edith? To insult and offend? To grab and grasp at all he can lay hands on?”
“Enough! Enough! Control yourselves or must I summon in the guard!” Edward was ineffectively fluttering his hands, making calming motions, his face anguished, uncertain what to do. Tostig’s words reverberated in his mind: “when Council elects me king instead of this old fool we are saddled with.” Had Tostig truly said that? Did he mean it? The Devil was surely at work here! He crossed himself, looked pleadingly from one contorted face to the other.
Leofwine and Gyrth came forward; each grasped at a brother, pulling them forcibly apart, Leofwine neatly fielding his sister’s batting hand with his raised arm; Tostig remonstrating furiously with Gyrth who, besides their sister, had always been the closest to him in opinion.
Gyrth released his brother and shook his head. In this, he could not agree with Tostig. “I am sorry, but Harold is right. We cannot start a war over what amounts to personal pride and gain.”
Tostig let his hands fall to his sides, the fight abruptly going out of him. But his anger had not died; took instead a different, more menacing twist. “So, you too are against me. And you, Leofwine?”
Leofwine looked down at his boots before glancing up again, direct into Tostig’s face. “I too. Our father and Harold never treated us with anything but respect and equal love. It swells in your own mind, this twisted hatred. Harold would lay his life down for you, but not at the expense of England and her people.”
A weird grimace distorted Tostig’s mouth. He turned to the King. The room had fallen silent, those present aware that the mood had subtly changed. “And you, my king, what do you say? This man here”—Tostig flicked a disdainful glance at Harold—“has refused to obey your command to call out the fyrd. What do you intend to do about it?”
Edward was trembling, his heart pounding, head thundering. Do? He had no idea what he ought to do.
No one moved or said anything; finally, Edward looked up from studying the rings that sparkled on his fingers. “What can I do Tostig? How can I order any man to war when we are so outnumbered by the opinion of my Council?”
Edith moved to her husband’s side, knelt, clutched his arm. “If you love my brother, Edward, you must help him recover his earldom! It is Harold who disobeys you—remove him from office, give command of your army to Tostig and again summon the fyrd.” She glanced up, swiftly, deliberately, at Harold, her meaning plain. “Either men obey you, Edward, or commit treason.”
Tostig saw her reasoning, moved also to the King’s chair, knelt, his eyes pleading. “I can lead the fyrd, my Lord. I can march against this rabble that is daring to defy you. Every one of them shall be strung from the highest trees! Grant me the authority, find me the men, I shall so do it.”
“Except,” Harold interrupted with cold and precise pronunciation, “that this rabble, as you call them, has not taken arms against their king. They have made that explicitly clear. They seek only justice and their legal rights. Northumbria bends its knee to the King—it but defies you, not Edward.”
Tostig glared at his brother then returned his gaze to Edward, his angry eyes staring into bewilderment. “If you do not do this for me, then how can you love me?”
Edward took Tostig’s hand, held it between his palms. “I regretted you having Northumbria, my dear friend, for you must be gone so long from court. Perhaps”—his breath caught with eagerness, a sudden pounce of hope; his hand tightened around Tostig’s. “Perhaps we can agree some compromise? Let Morkere have the earldom and I can give you something else, something better…something where you could be more often here as my companion.”
Tostig interrupted: “Wessex? Would you give me Wessex?”
There were sharp intakes of breath, an audible hiss of fury from Harold.
Wessex, the richest, most powerful earldom. By the very nature of his wealth, status and given responsibilities, whoever was appointed to rule Wessex could, theoretically at least, become a prime candidate to rule all of England.
For perhaps the first time in his life Edward was forced to admit the truth to himself: that he was a weak and easily influenced king; that it was only through the combined wisdom of his Council, not his own management, that peace had been maintained within this realm; that Harold Godwinesson was a sensible, practical man who cared for England above all else, and wore honour and integrity openly as his badge of office; that Tostig was but a shadow to his brother’s light, with a priority for his own selfish gain.
Despair twisted around Edward’s heart. Was this how his father had felt when he eventually realised how hopeless had been his rule? Or had his mother spoken the truth when she had so callously told him that Æthelred had never recognised contempt, not even when the people of England had hurled it at him in the form of cow dung and pig-shit?
He looked at Tostig, slowly shook his head. “I cannot.”
Tostig erupted into a blaze of anger. He snatched his hand from the King’s touch, his lip curling in repugnance. “So you do not care for me? Will not defend my reputation, nor give me the honour I am entitled to?”
Tears glistened behind Edward’s lashes, his shoulders slumped, his hands fell limp into his lap. “I never wanted to be a king. I was content with exile in Normandy, where I had friends for the sake of friendship alone, not for who or what I was. Where the days were full of
peace and the nights sighed quiet. I have tried, once or twice, to be the king you all expect me to be, but have not succeeded. Council does the thing so much better than I.” He stretched out his hand, imploring Tostig to understand. “Even were I to give Wessex to you, I doubt Council or your brother Harold would let you keep it.”
Tostig snatched his hand away, took a long step backward. “You pathetic old fool! This one thing I ask of you, after all these years of suffering your attention, your foul-odoured breath, your pawing and simpering. Of overcoming the disgust that rises like bile within me whenever I am forced to sit beside you?” Tostig shuddered with fury, longing to hit someone, something; to release his disappointment and hurt by flinging it back. “I hope you rot in hell, Edward, with the rest of these ball-less arse-lickers!”
Tostig Godwinesson turned on his heel and stalked from the chamber. Outside, he bellowed for someone to fetch his wife, to bid her take what she could within a saddlebag and for their horses to be saddled. Bewildered, tear-blotched and fearful, Judith left Oxford riding beside her husband with no idea of why, to where they were going, or if ever they would return.
No word, no outcry followed Tostig’s outburst. Men stood, shocked and stunned, staring open-mouthed at the closed door through which he had stormed.
Edith sat slumped among the rushes of the floor, her arms curled around herself, rocking backwards and forwards, tears coursing down her cheeks. Her hopes, her plans all ruined. All shredded into nothing. How would she survive as Queen without Tostig?
No one immediately noticed the King, forlorn, silent and so alone.
Harold went to him, hunkered to his heels before him. “My Lord? My Lord, be you ill?” He took the cold hands within his own, attempted to rub some warmth into them.
I Am the Chosen King Page 53
