I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  Offering wine and a seat, Edyth discreetly brushed at her unbecoming gown, patted her loose-braided, wisping hair. Alditha, despite her pregnancy, was elegant and well-groomed. Edyth smiled, played the dutiful hostess, but was inwardly seething with a rage directed at Harold. Pointedly, she was ignoring him. How dare he bring this woman here without giving her adequate warning! How dare he humiliate her so!

  Algytha entered, bearing a dish of sweetmeats and pastries; her mother noticed that she had found a moment to remove her apron and kerchief, and to slip on a clean over-tunic.

  “I would have word with you, Edyth,” Harold said, motioning for Algytha to sit. “Will you be kind enough to entertain the Queen a moment, my daughter?” Taking Edyth’s elbow, Harold steered her from the room, not waiting for a reply from either of the women.

  Once down the stairs, Edyth exploded, “How could you do this to me, Harold? To bring her here with no word? Look at the place—look at me! What must she be thinking?”

  Withstanding the tirade, for he recognised it was justified, Harold let her have her say. Then when she paused, apologised. “I appreciate the inconvenience, but blame it on Duke William, lass, not me. I do not have time for niceties. Edyth, I can but stay the hour, I must be back at Westminster by the afternoon. The call to arms has gone out. The fyrd is to muster on the thirteenth day of October at that old apple tree on Caldbec Hill.”

  Edyth bit her lip, ashamed of her churlishness. She knew the tree, had seen it on numerous occasions whenever they stayed at his Sussex manor. An ancient, grey-bearded old man of a tree, of a curious twisting shape, it thrust from the ground like a hand with misshapen fingers, two of them making the distinctive pagan horned sign to ward off evil. An appropriate augury.

  “It would be prudent to wait him out, hope for a poor winter to starve him into submission—but how can I abandon those people, my people, who are suffering? Do I abandon them to his mercy until the spring?” Harold could not, of course, which was William’s whole strategy. They, the two men, had studied each other well, knew each other’s limitations. William had no conscience; Harold cared. It was a defect which William considered to be a liability.

  As with most of an incredulous southern England, Edyth was struggling to accept the reality that William had landed, to understand the implications. The politics of it did not interest her, all she knew was that Harold eventually would have to fight this Norman duke. And that fighting could lead to pitiable wounds. Or death.

  “And your queen?” she asked. She could not bring herself to use the woman’s given name, that would be too much like accepting her, liking her.

  “I am sending Alditha north. She is only here because I am setting her on the road, and…” Harold paused. He did not know how to go on.

  They were standing apart. He wanted to hold her, touch her. Dare not, but…he lurched forward, put his hands on her upper arms, gripped them tight, with urgency. “And I want you to go with her. At least follow in a day or two.”

  As she started to shake her head, Harold shook her again, lighter but no less determined. “I have sent word ahead that Goddwin is to await her at York. Edmund will not be leaving until his broken leg has healed. Magnus is looking to his needs. I have asked Goddwin to stay with Alditha.”

  “He will not like it.” Edyth observed.

  Harold released her, and said quietly and with despondent honesty, “Nay, he will not. But it seemed the most convenient way, without offending his pride, of keeping him from straying over-close to William’s clutches, should things not go well in Sussex.” Reaching for her hand, he added, “I want you and our children safe also. I had no choice but to lose you as wife, but I can do my utmost to protect your life. If I am not here to—”

  “No!” Edyth almost screamed the word, then covered her mouth with her hands. Dear Lord God, do not tempt providence! “Do you think I could go north, suffer the agony of waiting all those days to hear what is happening to England, to you? I have had to endure torment these last weeks. I cannot, shall not, suffer the not knowing again!” She pulled her hand free of his hold, folded her arms, stood straight and defiant. How often had he seen that same determination once she had set her mind to something. “You may send your queen north, Harold, but you will not send me! The housecarl’s women will be on the heels of the army, to cook the food and tend the wounded. I shall be with them.”

  “As would I, Lady Edyth, were I not so heavy with child.”

  Both Edyth and Harold spun round, startled.

  Alditha was coming down the stairs, her skirts held high to forestall any risk of falling. She stepped down the last and released her garments. “Your lady, my husband, has the advantage twice over. Duke William will pay her scant attention. To him, she is merely a discarded mistress. Should Normandy see victory, you would do well to play on it, my Lady Edyth, for your own and your daughters’ safety. You are also not heavy with child. Sons, whether legitimate born or no, William will not permit to enjoy their freedom.” She put her hand to the bulge of her stomach. “I cannot risk remaining in the South to bear a son born of an anointed king. Not until we know that king is secure upon his throne.”

  Alditha was frightened but hid it well. So recently to have found contentment and happiness, to have stumbled on the edge of what could become a deep and trusting love…and to have it all, perhaps, snatched away by an obdurate Norman madman…“Until this child is born, and is safe from William, I would have Edyth with you, my Lord. You are tired, you will become more so yet, before this thing can be finished. You need one of us with you to ensure you do not fall ill. That one must be Edyth.”

  Easy, it was, to suggest something if you only looked at it from the practical side.

  19

  The Hoar-Apple Tree, Sussex

  Evening descended with one of those soft ripples that is barely noticed. The sky had darkened gradually, so that it was only when night actually fell that it was realised the day had ended. Evening ushered in the autumnal chill, the grass dew wet, the air nipping at fingers and face. Before many nights passed, frost would be sprinkling the bronzed leaves and dying bracken.

  There was no doubting that Duke William was aware of the English muster. Normandy had scouts who knew their job—had been observed by King Harold’s own scouts. Word would have travelled before the marching army as it left London, two days and sixty-odd miles away, over the northern Weald beyond the densely thicketed forest of Andredsweald. They had marched on foot, most of them—the housecarls, the fyrd—for there were no adequate sound horses, but it did not matter. The walk was not so long from London into Sussex, and surprise and speed were not essential for this coming battle.

  By the late afternoon of the thirteenth day of October several thousand men were adding their rough-made encampments to those already gathered on the wind-riddled slope of Caldbec Hill. More were coming: in small groups, pairs, ones and twos. Esegar and Godric, both Shire Reeves, settled their men at campfires after dark; Leofric, Abbot of Peterborough, joined his freemen of the fyrd with those of Abbot Ælfurg of Winchester. The men of Thurkill of Kingston and Eadric the Deacon sank wearily into the huddle of their cloaks, hardly caring that the women were offering them food, such was their weariness. Through the night men came, expecting to have a wait of a day or two, perhaps more, before their weapons and skill would be wanted. Scattered over the hill, a hundred and a hundred campfires mirrored the sparkle of the stars wheeling across the heavens: Orion the Hunter, the Bull, the Bear.

  The King’s own tent was pitched within yards of the old tree, which had proved its worth as an easily recognised rallying point. Outside, his two banners fluttered, toyed with by the restless southern wind: the Dragon of Wessex beside the Fighting Man. Nearby stood the command tent of Earls Gyrth and Leofwine with their own banners. Within Harold’s tent, the lamps lit, they were arguing.

  “It is senseless for you to fight, brother. If you are kill
ed, what will happen to England? Let me take your place.” Leofwine was vehement, his obstinate stance backed by many of those leaders also present—captains, bishops, thegns…

  “And what will happen to England if I did that?” Harold roared back at them, slamming his fist on the table top in front of him, making tankards and goblets, maps and the paraphernalia of war bounce. “I was elected king, as Harold the second of that name, elected as the man most worthy to lead our armies. Do I, then, abandon my responsibility at this first hint of danger?”

  “But you fought at Stamford Bridge—you have adequately proved your worth…” That was a captain of his housecarls.

  “And I shall fight here at Hastings!”

  Leofwine swung away from the table, his hands raised. “Is there no reasoning with the man?”

  “Happen you could try it more successfully with Duke William?” Gyrth said drily. “Our messenger got nowhere. You might be more persuasive.”

  Leofwine tossed a lewd, dismissive gesture at his brother. The offer of negotiation sent this afternoon had fallen on closed ears; William had refused even to consider the possibility of talking. A monk from Harold’s own abbey of Waltham had ridden those eight miles to the coast, carrying the green branch of peace high. “My Lord King Harold bids you peace,” he had said, “and offers you the freedom of withdrawal, with no reprisal or savagery against the destruction that has been committed here in his kingdom. Our King was legally elected by the Council of the Witan and the people of England. He has been anointed and acclaimed by the same.”

  The terse reply had been as ever it had. Earl Harold, as the Normans persisted in calling him, had sworn oath to become vassal of Normandy, had broken his pledge. As duke and rightful king, William had the support of the Church of Rome and the hand of God within his own. He had then laid down his own terms: “Let Harold surrender to me now, before blood is shed and the killing commences. I shall grant him adequate land for himself and his kindred.”

  The Waltham Abbey monk had shaken his head. “King Harold already has adequate land. He has England.”

  Countess Gytha, collecting empty broth bowls from the finished meal and handing them to a servant, added her own impassioned pleading to that of the men. “There is no one to lead if you should fall Harold. England can fight a second, third, or fourth time. William has but this one chance. He must win, for if he does not, how can he try again? He will not have the men. He must win or die—you do not.”

  “No! I have but the one chance also! Do you all not see?” Harold whirled away from them, his fingers raking through his hair. “I am new to kingship and I am not of the royal blood. I have to prove my ability—Stamford Bridge was a start, but ’tis not enough! Will the North stay loyal if I sit idle and let you, Leofwine, do all the fighting on my behalf?” He lowered his hands, a desperate plea for understanding contorting his face. “Duke William is a warrior lord. He will see naught but weakness if I flinch from facing him—that in itself may win him the day. Have no doubt that if I do not take the field, William will crow of my reluctance to prove the truth of this thing.”

  He crossed the tent, placed a hand on Leofwine’s shoulder, glanced at each man present, at his mother. “I quarrel with William, but do not wish to do so with all of you also. I have come this far and will lead my men into battle. As for the rest”—he spread his hands, let them fall to his side—“that is in God’s hands.” With a sudden display of affection, Harold pulled Leofwine to him in an embrace, patting his hand on the younger man’s back. Leofwine returned the gesture of peace.

  Then, grinning, Harold shuffled through the maps spread on the table and selected the one he required. “Now that matter is settled, let us make our plans. William is encamped here, by the Hastings shore. He will be wondering whether we are to attack him where he sits, or whether he will need come to us.” He looked at the men present: his two brothers, the commanders of his own housecarls and those of Gyrth and Leofwine, at the shire reeves, the more important thegns. “He has sufficient spies watching our every movement, as we are keeping close eye on him. Come dawn, we shall both know how many of each other’s men carry the cock-pox!”

  Gyrth laughed with the rest, then ran to the tent flap. “So you are watching us, eh, Bastard Born? Well, see this and take notice!” He unlaced his braies and thrust his bare backside out into the darkness to appreciative applause.

  “You had better not do that when we meet in battle,” someone guffawed. “I hear the Normans are skilled with the bow and arrow—that fine rounded bum of yours would make a most suited target.”

  “It is a broad one, that’s for certain!”

  Harold joined in the merriment, letting it swirl a while. Laughter was a good tonic. “What we need,” he said as the chuckling subsided, “is time. Another day, two, and all those men summoned will be here. Eadric ought to have the fleet in position—seventy of our craft are blockading the sea lanes. Within a few days the Normans will not be able to get in or out.”

  “Do we wait here, Sir? See what he intends?”

  “That is what I propose. I have no wish to go down into the peninsula. We have successfully cut William off from moving further out into England. He can either wait out the winter, or fight us. And if he decides to fight, we shall be here.” He stabbed his finger at a charcoal line drawn on the map. “On the hill above the Sand Lake, on Sendlach Ridge.”

  ***

  Countess Gytha left the men to their planning. She could not bear to listen to the talk of death and killing. Outside, she closed her eyes, breathed in the dampness of the earth, the lingering smell of woodsmoke and cooking—the aroma of stewing and sizzling meat, the acrid stench of a part that had scorched. Someone, she mused, had not watched and turned the spit. What would Godwine have thought and said of all this? Of Harold he would, without doubt, have been proud; of Leofwine and Gyrth also. But of their other son? Of Tostig?

  She walked through the groups of men, some sitting, talking and laughing, others curled up, trying for sleep. Many of them had their weapons laid across their knees, or cradled within their arms as if the axe or spear or sword were a woman. Where the path was narrow, they shuffled to allow her passage, doffing their hats, bringing their hand to their left shoulder in salute. They all recognised the Countess. Had not many and many of them served her dead lord before this one?

  What were they thinking, she wondered, of her son Tostig? Of his betrayal, of his utter stupidity? Two sons had she lost to the grave. Swegn she had never forgiven. Would she, in the years to come, think as bitterly of Tostig?

  At the edge of the slope stood a copse of trees, the canopy rustling as the wind played chasing games with the autumn-tinted leaves. In a week or two, if the weather turned and the wind strengthened, the leaves would fall and the trees stand unclothed, for all the world dead and finished. But unlike men slaughtered in battle, the shoots would bud in the spring and the trees would come alive again. Two sons dead and a third, not seen all these long years, held captive in Normandy. Did he still live, or had William had Wulfnoth hanged, or his throat cut?

  She sat on a fallen log, dimly illuminated by the flickering light of a campfire. If Wulfnoth had died at the Duke’s hand, then let God have seen to it that it had been quick and painless. Oh, she knew what William was capable of, how he could butcher and torture, how he could order a man—and his wife, so she had heard—shut within a dungeon and left to starve. All for defying their duke.

  She gazed out at the stars, hearing the eerie call of a hunting owl, the quick scream as it caught its prey. A mouse, perhaps, or a vole. Two, three sons lost to her, and a daughter.

  Edith she had tried to see in Winchester, wanting to talk sense into her, to make the fool girl realise the consequences of what was happening all around her. But Edith had refused her mother an audience, said she was too deep in mourning for her brother to welcome visitors. The rebuff had been as sharp as it had been
poignant, implying her mother had no feeling for Tostig.

  Oh, she was wrong in that! Very wrong. Gytha had many feelings for Tostig, feelings that were not suited to a woman, to a mother.

  The message she sent back to Edith, as she left her house in Winchester, had been as succinct: “Had I known the future as I lay birthing the son who came to be called Tostig, I would have taken the cord and tightened it around his neck myself. For this one act that I did not do, I may well lose three more of my sons, and a grandson with them!”

  20

  Hastings

  Before sunset, Duke William had the relics upon which Harold had sworn his oath paraded before the men. Archbishop Odo of Bayeux walked at the head of the procession, laying his hand on those soldiers who knelt before him, offering prayers and blessings. The exercise imbued the men with renewed strength; they were restless and uneasy for they were in a strange land, penned in with no way forward, no way back. The English ships had been sighted during the late afternoon and word had already spread that Harold had come…There was no getting out of this now. Either death or victory awaited. There could be no losing, for there was nothing to lose, save life itself.

  William had decided no definite plans or tactics when the fleet had sailed from Saint Valéry—too much had depended on the wind and sea and on their reception upon landing—if they managed to get that far. God had been with them for voyage and landing. A few peasants had attempted to make a fight of it as the Normans entrenched themselves in the village of Hastings, but they had been cut down. As the English army would be, when they met on the battlefield.

  His men were experienced, war-hardened soldiers—there was not a man here who had not at least one battle scar etched on his body. And he had the horses, the skilled and powerful cavalry, Harold did not. William’s scouts had told him that the English were mostly on foot or mounted on shaggier riding ponies, not war mounts.