1066

by G. K. Holloway

  ‘I’m afraid I have to agree with the Northumbrians.’

  A cheer of support went up from the crowd. No dissenters were heard.

  ‘Agree? Agree? What do you mean, agree?’ Tostig was infuriated. ‘How can you agree with this rabble?’

  Harold spoke quietly to Tostig. ‘The only way I can get you back is by force. That would mean civil war which we must avoid at all costs.’

  Tostig answered, hissing through his teeth, ‘At all costs? Who will pay the cost? Me. That’s who. This suits you, doesn’t it? You’re behind all this, aren’t you, Harold?’

  This accusation lightened the hearts of Edwin and Morcar. They had never thought they would live to see the Godwinsons fall out.

  ‘I’ll bet this was all your idea to get rid of me. I see it all now. Get Aelfgar’s sons to kick me out and in return you offer them my earldom. Now the way is clear for you to take the throne. Does your ambition know no bounds?’

  ‘You’ve put yourself in an impossible position, Tostig. I can’t support you,’ answered Harold, remaining calm.

  ‘Won’t support me, you mean. It’s unnatural not to support a brother. What’s the matter with you? Don’t answer, I know, you planned all this, didn’t you, you and your northern friends.’

  ‘I knew nothing about this, Tostig.’

  ‘Liar! Liar!’

  ‘You’ll apologise for that.’

  ‘You’ll take an oath.’

  These last remarks were greeted with uproar; Tostig’s friends and supporters were being yelled down by those of Edwin and Morcar.

  There was a brief, quiet exchange between Harold and Bishop Wulfstan, after which the Bishop produced a bible. Then Harold took an oath to the effect that he had had no part in the fomenting of the rebellion.

  The assembly became calm and was back under control; Edwin sat looking insolently at Harold, a surly Morcar by his brother’s side.

  ‘So, Earl Harold, now we know all this wasn’t your idea,’ said Edwin, ‘what do we do now?’

  ‘You must recognise Siward’s son Waltheof as Earl of Northampton and Lincoln and he is to hold those lands as his own. All those people who have been driven into captivity will be freed and allowed to return with their goods and chattels. Whatever my brother might or might not have done, the people of Lincoln and Northampton cannot be held responsible or punished. The same conditions apply to all those held in captivity from any of the other shires. In return, Earl Tostig’s laws shall be annulled and those of King Knut reinstated. With the permission of the Witan I shall declare Tostig deposed and Morcar elected Earl of Northumbria.’

  Harold looked around the faces of the members of the Witan. ‘Do you all say, aye?’

  ‘Aye,’ was the unanimous reply.

  ‘Then so be it. Is that agreeable to you, Earl Edwin?’

  ‘It is, Earl Harold.’

  ‘Good. Oh, and get those Welshmen out of the country in three days or we’ll come after them and kill the lot.’

  Edwin knew better than to argue and Morcar’s first act as earl would not be to defend Welshmen on English soil against his king.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘You may leave now. We’ll see you at the Christmas court in Gloucester.’

  ‘It’s good to do business with you, Harold. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘And what happens to me, I’d like to know?’ demanded Tostig.

  ‘It would appear that you’re banished,’ said Morcar with a chuckle. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and turned and walked away with Edwin, to the cheers and hoots of their men.

  ‘This is outrageous, Harold.’

  ‘Let’s see the King.’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ snapped Tostig.

  They found an agitated king pacing about in his quarters.

  ‘Well, what was the outcome?’ he snapped before anyone had time to greet him.

  ‘The Witan voted to depose Tostig and elect Morcar in his place. Tostig is banished.’

  ‘No. No. No.’ Edward was heartbroken. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘You see, Harold, at least someone is showing me some loyalty.’

  ‘It’s not a question of loyalty… ’

  ‘Isn’t it? I know your mind. I know what you’re plotting. Why should you have the throne? I’m as important in the North as you are down here in the South. Why should you have the throne, anyway? You’re not the oldest son, Sweyn was. It was I who destroyed the Welsh, admittedly with some help from you. You claimed all the glory for that. But look at Northumbria; look at everything I’ve achieved up there!’

  Harold did not have to speak.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t make this mess. Troublemakers did that. Now show me some loyalty.’

  ‘Argh!’

  The two men looked round to see the King, right hand on left arm, eyes bulging, slowly collapsing to the floor. He was struggling to remain upright but with no success. The two men grabbed him and lifted him into a chair, calling for aides as they did so. Baldwin, monk of St. Denis and the King’s physician was sent for; apoplectic shock was his diagnosis.

  After an hour or so the old King came round; he seemed burdened with a terrible sadness. He was suffering a great humiliation and it looked as though the added grief of suffering the loss of a loved one was too much for him.

  A scribe entered with the orders for Tostig’s exile for the King to sign.

  ‘Forgive me; I have to do this. It’s out of my hands,’ Edward said, as he sobbed and signed the orders.

  The events of the day were too much for Edward. He wept and took to his bed. After an emotional farewell, Tostig and Judith departed for exile at the court of her half-brother, Baldwin of Flanders. King Edward, now a broken man, was taken to Westminster where it was hoped he would make a recovery.

  Farewell to the King

  A great chill fell over the land that Christmas and since Edward was too ill to travel, the court was held in London. The King was desperate to see the consecration of his new church at Westminster, which seemed to be the only thing keeping him alive.

  News of Edward’s illness had spread and as the greatest in the land gathered, an air of foreboding filled the King’s great hall. All around the snow fell and settled deeper each day and when it had reached a foot in depth it stopped, to be followed by freezing fog that hung in the air, shrouding the city, a premonition of mourning.

  In spite of the weather, a great concourse from the whole of England assembled at Westminster that Christmas for the consecration and, heaven forbid, if the King should die, to have a say in the election of his successor. Stigand and Eadmer were present, as were all twelve of the bishops, the royal clerks, Ragenbald the King’s Chancellor, all seven earls, and too many thanes to mention. Notable by his absence was Tostig. His non-appearance added to the feeling of gloom hanging over the melancholic festivities.

  Edward lay in bed feeling the ravens had gathered for a feast. On Christmas Eve, as his subjects celebrated, he had a series of strokes but valiantly staggered through the Christmas Day ceremonies. Exhausted, he spent all of the next two days in bed at. But nothing could keep him away from the consecration of Westminster on 28th December, the festival of the Holy Innocents. As soon as it was over he took to his bed for the last time. In attendance were Archbishop Stigand, Queen Edith, Harold and Robert FitzWymarc; other members of the court visited when it was deemed appropriate.

  In an anteroom off the great hall, Leofwine and Gyrth were deep in conversation. They knew the King was dying and concerned as they were for him, they had matters of state on their minds.

  As the New Year approached, the temperature outside plummeted still further and the King’s fever began to soar. The New Year saw Edward drifting in and out of consciousness, sometimes becoming delirious. Once he awoke with a look of sheer horror on his face. Grabbing hold of Queen Edith’s arm, he began to recount the horrors of an apocalyptic vision.

  ‘I saw two monks,’ he said with staring eyes. His
grip was surprisingly strong for someone so weak. ‘They told me that all the magnates in England, all of them, not just the earls but all of the churchmen too, they’re all servants of the Devil.’

  The King struggled for breath as everyone around him looked on with trepidation.

  ‘God has cursed the kingdom!’ he blurted, and then sobbed. ‘A year and a day after my demise, the Almighty will deliver it into the hands of the enemy. Devils the like of which no one has ever seen will come through all this land with fire and sword. Like a dark black cloud, the havoc of war will descend on this country.

  ‘I told them that I would make my people see the light. I would bring my people to repentance and ask for God’s mercy. Surely if I did, His mercy would not be withheld. But do you know what? The monks said that the English would never repent and God would refuse to pardon them. It seemed all was lost and then I had an inspiration. I asked them when God’s punishment would be complete, thinking surely he would not punish the kingdom for long.’

  ‘What did they say, husband dear?’ asked Edith with watering eyes.

  ‘They talked in riddles. They answered that God would cease to punish the English for their sins when an oak tree in full leaf, having recently been felled half-way up its trunk and the part that had been cut off carried a quarter of a mile away, should all by itself join up with the trunk again, break into leaf and bear fruit. When that miracle happens, God’s anger will be calmed.’

  ‘No, dear, no. It can’t be true. It was just a dream,’ said Queen Edith, trying to calm her distressed husband.

  Through tear-filled eyes he assured her it was true. He had spoken with his maker. Now the Queen, as well as the King, was in tears. She was convinced his soul had made the journey to heaven and returned for a short time to bring the news of the revelations. She was sure they were real and thought Edward a true prophet.

  Stigand leaned over to Harold, whispering in his ear to reassure him. ‘I’ve spent many a time at a deathbed listening to the ramblings of the dying. Don’t worry, just ignore him; he’s raving. It’s just a pre-death fever. Lots of people do it.’

  While Edith was sobbing, the King called for everyone to gather round. ‘It’s time I spoke and made my will known to you all,’ he said, in a whisper.

  ‘I ask the Almighty to repay my wife for her loving and dutiful service.’ He then held out his weak and trembling hand to Harold and said the following, ‘I commend this woman and the entire kingdom to your protection.’

  Harold nodded in acquiescence and the King lay silent for a short time to recover his breath and collect his thoughts before speaking again. Harold turned toward the bed as Edward spoke. The ghostly King’s words seemed to come from a distance, as he asked, ‘Promise me you’ll make my death known everywhere, as is customary, so that at once my people can invoke the mercy of God for me, a miserable sinner.’

  ‘I promise, my Lord.’

  The end was upon them now. More and more, the sound of sobbing filled the room. While his vassals wept, the Queen cried unceasingly. ‘What will I do now? Whatever will become of me?’

  Edward spoke his last words and made his final will and testament. To his men he said, ‘Don’t weep but pray to God for my soul and give me leave to go to him.’

  Then he turned to Edith and tried to comfort her. ‘You are not to fear, for by God’s mercy I will not die now, but shall become well again.’

  Looking straight up at the ceiling he exclaimed, ‘May God repay my wife for her dutiful and loving service, for she has certainly been a devoted servant to me and has always been at my side, just like a loving daughter. May God’s mercy reward her with eternal joy in heaven.’

  With this Edith burst into uncontrollable wailing.

  Edward turned and offered his hand to Harold. ‘I commend this woman and the entire kingdom to your protection. Remember, she is your lady and sister, and serve her faithfully and honour her as such for all the days of her life. Do not take away from her any honour that I have granted her.

  ‘And I commend to you all my foreign vassals and servants and ask that you shall offer them service under you and should any decline, that you promise safe conduct for them to return home with all that they acquired in the royal service.’

  So at last it was said. The King had named his successor in the form of a verba novissima, the customary legal and binding form of will and testament, practised in England since time immemorial.

  Harold agreed, as Edward knew he would: ‘I shall, my Lord.’

  ‘Good man. Have my grave prepared in the minster.’

  ‘As you command, my Lord.’

  Those were the last words the King exchanged with anyone. Drifting off into fitful sleep, he jolted and juddered through the night as he slowly slipped away. The next day, on the cold grey morning of the fifth of January, as snow began to fall around Westminster and the last rites were being administered to him, the King passed away, his suffering over.

  All through the eve of Epiphany, Edward lay in state in the great hall. As word spread through the city, more and more of his subjects came to pay their respects all through the day and the long, cold night. The earls took it in turns to keep the death-watch, each standing, sword drawn, hands on the hilt while the point rested on the floor between his feet. They stood by his bier, sentinels in black mourning cloaks, protecting him even in death. When the bells rang midnight, as the monks chanted, Harold left Edyth alone in bed and made his way to confession before taking his place by the King, where he would keep vigil till dawn.

  As he made his way from the church to the great hall, snowflakes fell silently from the black night sky, almost as if the stars were falling in on the world. One or two at first, then more, bigger, heavier, faster they fell but still silently. In Harold’s eyes they looked like ghosts of autumn leaves. High on the ground they piled, one on top of the other, growing deeper with every passing minute, sucking up the sounds around them. Nothing rustled, nothing stirred; sound and colour vanished, leaving only pure white silence.

  The next morning, on the fogbound freezing Feast of Epiphany, the foremost men of the land carried Edward’s body on a bier draped in a richly embroidered pall. His face, uncovered, looked heavenward, the crown still on his head. The sceptre was by his side. With Harold, Regenbald, Gyrth and Leofwine shouldering the front poles and Morcar, Edwin, Oswulf and Waltheof shouldering the rear, the old King’s body so light any one of them could have carried him alone, the noblemen took their lord effortlessly towards his final resting place.

  Through the fog they made their way, clouds of breath rising from them, their feet crunching on the snow. As they entered the western door of the minster, they left behind them nothing but silence. The echoes of footsteps and cleared throats mingled as they made their way through the cold, hard air, the smell of damp fresh cut stone in their nostrils. All were aware of history in the making; this was the first time a funeral procession had entered the building. As the members of the congregation made their way to their places, Harold and the other bearers passed under the massive arches held high by tall pillars that glinted like frost in the semi darkness. In the eerie light the pallbearers made their way to the place before the main altar, where Stigand removed the crown and sceptre. With gentle grace and dignity the King’s body was lowered into the sarcophagus. England had a king no more.

  King Harold II

  That afternoon in the open air, the Witangemot gathered, feet freezing in the icy snow. A cold breeze had risen to blow away the morning fog; it gusted here and there, biting at random, chilling skin and bone. Presiding over the council was Regenbald, standing in the middle of a great circle of men; most of London had gathered around. The Chancellor reminded them of the constitution and their duty under law.

  ‘Before any of you say anything, let me remind you that it is the duty of the Witan, in the name of the people of England, not only to advise the King in his lifetime but also to elect a successor after his demise.

  ‘First,
the king we elect should be a man of fit and sober character, someone who will be bold but fair. Second, royal blood should flow through his veins. Third, he must have had the support and enjoyed the trust of the former king.’

  All those present knew what was coming next. Regenbald would announce the candidates and everyone knew who they would be; Edgar the Atheling and Harold Godwinson.

  Regenbald made the announcement as expected.

  ‘But what about Duke William of Normandy?’ ventured Bishop William.

  ‘What about him?’ replied the Chancellor, puzzled by the question.

  ‘Surely he has a claim?’

  ‘What claim does he have?’

  ‘He’s the King’s cousin.’

  ‘He’s the King’s mother’s cousin, which is not the same thing at all.’

  ‘Now you’re just being pedantic,’ said Bishop William, feeling put out.

  ‘I am simply observing the law. If William were the King’s father’s cousin then he would have a claim to the throne but as it is, he doesn’t.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘William. Be quiet.’

  ‘But I… ’

  ‘Silence,’ snapped Regenbald, staring him down.

  Bishop William complained to his young companion, Gervicus, the late King’s monk.

  ‘Would anyone like to add anything to what has been said?

  ‘I would.’ It was Margaret, the Atheling’s older sister.

  ‘Then now is the time to speak.’

  ‘I offer my full support to my brother Edgar. It is true that Harold, like Edgar, enjoyed the trust and support of the King. It is also true that Harold, like Edgar, is a fit and sober character but unlike Harold, Edgar is of royal blood. It seems only proper to me that Edgar should be proclaimed king. Who says Aye?’

  Nobody said aye. Her enthusiasm was greeted with silence.

  ‘What’s the matter? Will no one support the rightful heir to the throne?’

  Again she was greeted by silence.

  ‘Why do you think we came all the way from Hungary, if not so that one day Edgar would be king?’