‘I’ll do all I can.’
‘Good, let’s climb aboard, then.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I told you, I’m wet, tired and hungry. Besides, we can’t sail to Sandwich while this east wind still blows. Let’s go up to the hall.’
‘I said, get on board!’
‘I said, no,’ and with that he turned and headed for his horse. Sweyn leaped towards him, followed by his sailors who had now drawn their swords. One of them let out a shrill whistle and sailors emerged from all the ships. In no time, Beorn was overpowered and at least twenty armed men had arrived in support of Sweyn, who now had the upper hand. Looking menacing, he addressed Beorn’s companions. ‘I’d advise you to back off before there’s any blood spilt. This is a family matter and not your concern.’
The three men looked to Beorn, who needed no convincing of the futility of resistance. He ordered them back, instructing them to get word to the family.
By the time they had mounted their horses and made off towards Godwin’s hall, Sweyn had given orders to set sail. Sweyn’s ship led the way and the others followed. The sea was still quite rough away from the calm of Bosham harbour so they made their way down the Solent, between the mainland and the Isle of Wight. They sailed through the night, making their way westwards with no particular destination in mind.
Beorn had been dragged on board, bound and tied to the mast, where he had been kept all night while the ships sailed west. His anger had turned to frustration, to exasperation and finally to resignation. He believed his cousin was going through a deranged phase and would hopefully respond to a calm voice and sensible talk. Just after dawn, Sweyn awakened and approached his cousin.
‘Good morning, Beorn.’
‘Sweyn, this doesn’t make any sense. Why are you forcing me away like this?’
‘Why? Isn’t it obvious? I want my earldom back.’
‘And you think you’re going to get it this way?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, what do you intend to do? If you want your earldom back, you’ll have to see the King in Sandwich. We’re not even sailing in the right direction.’
‘Never mind about all that. I want you to agree to my reinstatement.’
‘You’ve forfeited your earldom and it now belongs to Harold and me. I’ve no intention of giving it to you, especially now you treat me so disgracefully.’
‘What’s mine is mine and you will return it.’
‘I will not. Harold will not. And nor will the King, especially now that you have added kidnapping to your sins.’
‘Who says you’ve been kidnapped?’
‘My men saw what happened.’
‘Your men are liars and troublemakers. Besides my men saw you come aboard voluntarily, didn’t you, lads?’
There was a resounding positive response from Sweyn’s crew.
‘There, you see. You’ve merely come for a short sea trip with your cousin. But you must be careful. We wouldn’t want any accidents, would we? It’s so easy to fall overboard.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If I don’t get my earldom back, you’ll be going on another trip, this time to the bottom of the sea, or shall I sell you as a slave at Dublin market? My brother and father wouldn’t want that and neither would the King. So he will return my earldom. You see, it’s as simple as that.’
‘If you believe that, Sweyn, then you’re mad.’
‘I’m not mad,’ he yelled. ‘I know exactly what I do and I will have my earldom back!’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘If that’s the way you want it,’ bellowed Sweyn, reaching for his sword.
Unable to move, Beorn stared in disbelief as Sweyn brought the weapon down hard across his belly. Tied to the mast he could do nothing but cry out in agony as his guts spilled on to the deck, as again and again Sweyn slashed the blade into him.
‘There you are, you fucking bastard. Happy now?’ snarled Sweyn.
Finally, the mad man lunged at his cousin’s chest, puncturing the young man’s heart, forcing what was left of his life to spurt out of him. Beorn’s golden head flopped down in final submission. Sweyn, blood-spattered, still ranting, stabbed him three more times. The crew were staring in silence. There was not a man amongst them who was not appalled by what he had seen.
Sweyn turned to face them and recognising the look of condemnation on their faces, yelled at the dumbstruck sailors, ‘Did you see that? Did you? Did you? The bastard wouldn’t give me my earldom back!’
He turned to Beorn’s body and plunging the sword into it once more yelled, ‘You bastard,’ at the corpse. Sweyn turned again to his transfixed crew and meeting their stares he addressed them, ‘Well, what else could I do? You saw what he did! He asked for it,’ and then stamping his foot on the deck, his spit-flecked lips curled back. He wouldn’t give me my earldom back!’
Sweyn, silent except for his breathing, looked once more at his dead cousin and then turned his attention back to his crew. ‘He deserved that,’ he screeched, with his arm stretched out behind him, his forefinger pointing at the dead hostage. The silence of his crew, the sound of the sea and the calling of the gulls were all that greeted him. The ship rocked in the waves as though trying to calm a troubled baby. But there was no calm on board that particular crib. The uneasy atmosphere quickly turned to one of revulsion, as though some evil spirit had settled on the ship. Sweyn felt distant from his crew, marooned on an island set alone in an ocean of contempt and loathing.
Growing calmer but still edgy, in a quiet, gentle tone for the benefit of those who seemed unsure, Sweyn reiterated, ‘He had it coming to him, didn’t he? He had it coming to him.’ No one seemed convinced. ‘I tell you what,’ he said, with an uncertain smile quivering on his lips, ‘we’ll give him a decent Christian burial. What do you say?’
This was Sweyn’s idea of appeasement but as his crew was pagan, his offer had little impact. Sweyn could feel the danger in the hostility of the men and decided to do everything he could to keep them with him. He knew full well if a leader lost the respect and loyalty of a Viking crew, it was only a matter of time before he lost his life. Sweyn, looking along the coast, recognised the mouth of the River Dart.
‘Look, Dartmouth’s just over there. There’s a nice church where we can give him a send-off,’ he smiled reassuringly, nodding his head, his eyes wide in a caricature of innocence.
The steersman pulled on the helm and the ship headed toward the river. Sweyn started to relax a little. Now we can dump the body, he thought. He would be glad when this blew over. Sweyn’s spirits were lifting, though his crew remained silent.
The threat from Baldwin’s fleet had passed; most of his ships had been lost in the storm and Edward felt free to dispatch Harold to intercept his wayward brother. With Tostig at his side and ten other ships, Harold left Pevensey and sailed along the coast until just outside Exmouth he met two of Sweyn’s ships heading towards them. Given the order to prepare for battle, the King’s ships closed in on the Danes. It soon became obvious Sweyn’s men did not intend to fight. When they had closed to within a few feet of each other, the captain of the first boat explained to a grief-stricken Harold what had happened. He went on to say that the murder of Beorn had been no part of any agreement to sail. The crew were so revolted by the heinous killing of one kinsman by another, they felt compelled to leave Sweyn to his own evil ends.
Following the directions given to them by the Danes, Harold and Tostig sailed down to Dartmouth, exhumed Beorn’s body and sailed on to Winchester, where they gave him a Christian burial, finally laid to rest beside the body of his uncle, the late King Knut. After several months, word came from the continent that Sweyn was living in Bruges, where he was enjoying the protection of Count Baldwin. Edward sent word that should he return to England, it would be on pain of death.
Plans in the making
King Edward and Bishop Robert were returning from a visit to the site of the new abbey at Westminster. The master mason, a
Norman, had supervised the building of the abbey at Jumieges and had been brought over from Normandy especially to oversee the construction. He was proving to be an astute choice.
‘Well, what do you think, Robert?’
‘It will be a truly wonderful building, my Lord.’
Edward was pleased a start had been made on what he hoped would become his mausoleum and was in good spirits when he and de Jumieges reached his private chamber. They made themselves comfortable and a servant brought them wine. Edward opened the conversation.
‘I hear Harold and that woman of his have had another son. Do you know what they’ve called him?’
‘I dread to think, my Lord.’
‘Magnus. Magnus, can you imagine it? Why would they call him Magnus after all the trouble we’ve had with Norway?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea, my Lord. No idea at all.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you have. Well, it’s one more of Godwin’s brood to grow up and give me trouble. We’ve rid ourselves of Sweyn and not before time. You’d think Godwin would be glad. Even his own sister, the Queen, calls him a gulping monster. But no, at every opportunity Godwin is there to persuade or cajole us into taking him back. He murdered his own cousin, for God’s sake, and Godwin still wants him back. We can’t have that, can we? You know, Godwin’s other sons aren’t so bad.’
‘Really?’ replied de Jumieges, startled by Edward’s remark.
‘Oh, yes. Tostig is a boy any father would be proud to call son. He’s tall, strong and handsome; very religious too, a man of great faith. He and Lady Judith are such good company. I enjoy the time we spend together. Winter evenings spent talking by the fireside, the days spent out hunting. He’s so good in the saddle, you know. You really ought to see him ride. He’s like a Norse god galloping through the country with all that long blond hair of his flowing behind. Ah, it’s a splendid sight.’
Images of Tostig flooded into the King’s mind, filling him with joy, until he suddenly caught the curious look in Robert’s eye and continued, ‘Harold is a good fellow too, but there are so many of them. There’s Gyrth, he’s twenty-five now. Leofwine must be twenty-four and Wulfnoth, how old is he?’
‘About fourteen, I’d say.’
‘Well, he’ll want a slice of the cake when the time comes, as will all the rest. They’ll all want an earldom and if that happens, I’ll be completely outnumbered at court, and it’s bad enough now.’
‘What do you suggest, my Lord?’
‘I need powerful friends in the right places. Friends I can rely on.’
‘Like your nephew, Ralph.’
‘Exactly.’
Robert, having a feeling his moment was about to arrive, waited with bated breath to see what Edward would say next.
‘Saddened though I am that Eadsige has passed away, his death has provided a heaven-sent opportunity that cannot be missed. Robert, you have excelled as Bishop of London and you are more than a mere chaplain to me; you are a friend I can trust and rely on, which is why I want you to replace him as Archbishop of Canterbury.’
‘My Lord, this is indeed an honour,’ effused Robert, trying to project a picture of saintly calm through his excitement.
‘You will be my ally at court and I hope, if you are not too busy, you will find time to reform the church.’
‘That will be a pleasure,’ said Robert.
The King continued, ‘I’ll announce my decision at the mid-Lent council. I’m sure it will be agreed. You see, I have the support of Leofric and Siward in this. They are anxious, especially Leofric, to save a little money. By reducing the size of the fleet we’ll be able to cut taxes. As King Magnus is no longer a threat and Harald Sigurdsson and King Swein are too busy fighting each other to bother us, we don’t need so many ships. Fewer ships mean fewer taxes.’
‘So in return for their support of my nomination, you will reduce the tax burden. That should be popular with everyone except Godwin.’
‘Yes, but he can strut and squawk all he likes, he’ll still be outvoted.’
‘Very clever, my Lord. He’ll lose some of his military support, but don’t you think he’ll still be too powerful?’
Edward let out a loud sigh, and then confided, ‘You know, I’ve been thinking what it would be like to be a king in England without Godwin and his family to block me at every turn? Heaven knows I’m under pressure to produce an heir. If we got Edith out of the way perhaps I could remarry and resolve the succession problem.’
‘Do you have another lady in mind, to take her place as queen?’
‘Godwin decide.’
‘Why should Godwin decide?’
‘What?’
‘My Lord, you said, ‘Godwin decide.’’
‘I said no such thing. What I said was God will decide.’
‘I apologise my Lord. I must have misheard,’ said the red-faced bishop.
‘Indeed you did!’ snapped the King.
Mid-Lent council
The council members bustled into the great hall of Westminster; they exchanged greetings and smiles laden with false sincerity. There was a tension in the air which the Godwins noticed immediately.
Robert de Jumieges sat in quiet anticipation. His mind was barely able to contain the thoughts swimming in his narrow head. Soon he would be the most powerful churchman in the land. That would not be the only change. Today Godwin’s fate would be sealed.
Robert’s bulbous eyes swivelled in his head, darting from one face to the next, trying to fathom the thoughts that lay behind their owners’ expressions. His eyes settled on Godwin, deep in conversation with his son, Harold. Godwin, so wise, all powerful, the kingmaker. He was at the pinnacle of his career but about to take a fall. Who would catch him?
He shifted his gaze to the English clerics, looking at them with utter disdain. What a rabble they were, like shepherds, overly concerned with their flocks; too busy looking the wrong way, paying attention to the bleating of their woolly-minded parishioners to concentrate on what truly mattered: papal reform and the rule of Rome. These were the important issues of the day and for these England needed a united Church, where everyone spoke with the same voice, in Latin, and read from the same bible, in Latin, and the people came to church and prayed, in Latin. Why couldn’t these fools see it was the rule of Rome that held us all together and protected us from our enemies? There were wolves prowling around not far from these shores and what did they do? They sat here wittering on about poverty, the needs of the homeless, the plight of orphans, the concerns of mothers struggling to bring up children on their own, without the help of a father. These weren’t problems to be solved by the Church. These poor people were gifts from God, here on this earth so that those more fortunate could be charitable, just as women were here so that we might pursue chastity and drink so that we might abstain. Life seemed full of paradoxes.
And so Robert sat through the ecclesiastical meeting, offering less than his usual contribution of pearls to the swine. Looking from one to the other, he made up a list of who would stay and who would go after the great upheaval. His train of thought was broken by the King’s voice. De Jumieges had no idea how long he had been talking but he was making an announcement.
‘… bid a special welcome to our new Earl of Hereford, my nephew Ralph.’
Cheers and shouts of congratulation boomed in the hall, even though everyone there had been expecting the appointment for weeks. The new Earl of Hereford might be French but he was not a Norman, something that was beginning to count for a lot in England. Ralph was quiet and modest to the point of earning for himself the nickname of Ralph the Timid. Many, especially Harold, liked him for his modesty, openness and optimistic outlook. There was not the mildest objection to his appointment from anyone. It was a good choice to make this the first announcement.
Edward’s second choice on the agenda was popular too. He proposed Regenbald, from Lorraine, for Chancellor. This was no surprise to anyone as the royal clerk was liked and had a reputation for prudence
in all matters. The appointment was unopposed. As the mood grew more relaxed, Edward introduced the third item on his agenda.
‘The next matter we need to discuss is paying off the fourteen foreign ships which we have been retaining to bolster our fleet,’ announced the King with a certain amount of glee, looking positively mischievous.
This came as a complete shock to Earl Godwin and his family. Now he understood the atmosphere; conspiracy was in the air.
King Edward continued, ‘Who has something to say on the matter?’
Godwin stood up. ‘Does the King think it wise to reduce the fleet? Does this not make us appear weak to an enemy? Would it not invite attack?’
The King seemed almost bored. ‘Does anyone else have anything to say?’
Earl Leofric put forward his argument: ‘Now peace has returned the English navy is too large; would we not profit by ridding ourselves of the foreign squadron? It’s my opinion that we’re over burdened by the crippling tax levied to support these idle foreign mercenaries.’
Siward and Ralph, keen to reduce taxes, came in straight away in support of Leofric, as it would be at the expense of their neighbours to the south.
Harold stood to speak. ‘Have the other earls considered that England enjoys peace only because the navy is large? Those who would seek to profit by attacking us are deterred by the size of our forces and go elsewhere to look for easier spoils. I believe my father is right; to reduce the navy is to invite trouble.’
This time the King spoke. ‘That is something I have already considered, Earl Harold and Earl Godwin. And I agree with you; if we simply reduce the size of the navy we might invite trouble but if we had an alliance with Normandy this would give us the control of the Channel we enjoy and cost us nothing.’
Godwin jumped to his feet in an instant to address the court again. ‘My Lord, the Normans have no navy to speak of and that being the case, what possible use is an alliance with them?’
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