New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  ‘Trust and you, Mother,’ Edward commented drily, ‘are not words that ride easy side along side.’

  Her expression of wide-eyed innocence would have outclassed any roving actor’s. ‘My Lord, you have me wrong! I do not speak for my own sake, but for the queen who is to come after me. I speak here for your future wife, for Edith, Godwinesdaughter!’ The calculated indignation in her voice was lost as Edward stormed to his feet to shout home the next direct hit of lance against shield. He had heard her, however, for, reseating himself some moments later, he said with a growl of contempt, ‘I do not care for a wife who may turn out to be as much of a damned nuisance as you have been.’

  Emma genuinely laughed. ‘My dear son, you will never control a mother or a lover, but you can always control a wife!’ She spoke true enough, for no woman would push her place beyond reason – not until her first son was born. Once a wife became a mother, ah, then all things altered.

  Edward wanted a son. He enjoyed the company of children, wished dearly for a brood of his own. Could not stomach, though, the intimate details of taking a wife. At least, not one whose father wanted to take command of England. Godwine, damn him, was not going to!

  Edward slumped in his chair, his lip thrusting forward, petulant. ‘I would have thought the last thing you wanted, Mother, was a chit of a girl to take your place at court. You might be content to allow her father to grasp me by the balls, but I am not!’ He spoke sourly, the pleasure of the day fading. ‘What do you intend to get out of this pretence at meekness? The reinstatement of your land? Your wealth? Do you expect to have my treasury under your grubbing hands again merely for information that I could as easily have discovered for myself?’ Edward furiously pummelled the cushion behind his back, snapping irritably at a servant who leapt forward to help, ‘I can do it, boy. I am not totally bloody useless! Though my lady mother would have you all think so!’

  Emma repressed her irritation. Suddenly the thought of remaining secluded within her own sensible company at Winchester appealed in reality. ‘I want the lands that I am entitled to through both my marriages and the wealth that is personally mine. That is all. On the day that you take Edith as your queen, Edward, I intend to retire to Winchester. Leave you in peace.’

  Edward’s laugh was sardonic. ‘Madam, you almost make me believe you!’

  To his consternation, she answered with what was undoubtedly earnest truth: ‘I swear on Cnut’s grave that I shall set aside my duties as Queen. I want nothing but the granting of my dignity, Edward. That is all I ask of you.’

  Edward’s intention, throughout, had been to curtail his mother’s power and to strip Godwine of his implacable pride, without upsetting the balance of law and order or giving either of them a dais from which to rally support. It had been done before, a king murdered by the uniting of his earls! I initiated this wretched betrothal to shackle Godwine, Edward thought, yet he has done nothing but strut and pontificate since! Another boat approached the target pole, her oars not pulling in unison. I cannot trust my mother – but would I be a fool to squander what may be a genuine offer?

  Edward made his decision as the boy lancer missed the target and tumbled into the water, spray cascading in a spume over the despondent crew. I will take Edith as wife, get a son from her and hold my mother to her vow. His eyes narrowed, features hardening. He might not be a vindictive man, but there was a streak of spite within his character, a streak that was as capable of wounding as deeply as any war spear. And once she is my wife, my exclusive property, I shall cast Godwine from court.

  Edward jeered and laughed at the sodden boy as, grinning, he hauled himself up the algae-slimed wooden steps to the sanctuary of the wharf. The King was uncertain how he would set about his plan, but Robert Champart would know. Robert knew everything. ‘I shall agree if you remove yourself to Winchester now. I shall wed Edith come Michaelmas.’

  Satisfied, victorious, Emma settled to enjoy the remainder of the afternoon. Michaelmas would do very well, give her time to begin the girl’s instructions. She would take her home to Winchester – Edward could not very well refuse, for surely he would prefer his queen to be suitably tutored in all her future royal duties?

  Over thirty boats, crewed by the boys of London, were entered for the race that would follow the jousting tourney; keels of all shapes and sizes, in varying degrees of river-worthiness. Expectant and excited, Edward leant forward as the shout came from upriver that they were away, the race begun. His boat, captained by Ralf, was all the Earl Harold had said she would be. A sleek, proud little craft that skimmed the water as if she were a swallow dipping for a drink on a hot afternoon. The King had high hopes of winning this race.

  Nothing could be seen at first, for the contestants were around the bend of the river – only the shouting of the spectators – and then they burst into view. Oars flashing amid a churn of white foam, the crews using every ounce of strength, arms and muscles straining, expressions taut with concentration. In front, two craft, captained by Beorn and Ralf, raced hull to hull. Twice their blades clashed, the captains bellowing for the crews to pick up, dip deeper, pull harder. ‘Lift her! Lift her!’

  Unable to contain his excitement any longer, Edward was on his feet, waving his arms, hopping from foot to foot. ‘He is going to do it, by God!’ he shouted. ‘My nephew is going to win!’

  Aware of the thorny path that he had been walking of late, Godwine seized the opportunity to reclaim lost ground. He stepped closer to the King, shouted above the tumult, ‘He is a fine young man, Sire. He will soon deserve higher command than that little boat.’

  Edward turned his head to glower at the Earl. His initial reaction was to answer with some scathing remark, but Robert Champart, standing at the King’s shoulder, spoke briefly in his ear. Edward’s scowl relaxed into a leering smile.

  ‘You are right, Godwine, Ralf deserves reward. Champart suggests I grant him an earldom. It would be a good gift for my nephew, do you not agree?’

  Godwine groaned. Damn Champart, that was not what he had meant . . . ‘That would be an excellent proposal, my Lord. In a few years’ time, when Ralf reaches manhood and gains a little more experience, it would be a fitting honour for the lad.’ God’s breath, Godwine thought as he mouthed the words, how am I going to explain this to Tostig? That was the difficulty in having so many grown sons. They all expected similar reward though it was not within their father’s sole power to offer up vacant earldoms. That was for the King’s giving with Council’s approval.

  Champart smirked to himself, knowing full well Godwine’s predicament.

  Ralf’s crew was drawing ahead . . . the water churning, the boys’ anguished breath gasping and catching in their throats, the sweat running down their naked backs . . . a few more yards, just a few more yards!

  Harold had been standing to the forefront of the raised platform with his arm protectively around Edyth, sharing her excitement as she shouted for her chosen crew – Beorn’s. She was enjoying this, but London, these last days, had become a disappointment.

  His sister’s unkindness had shaken Edyth deeper than she cared to admit. Her words hurt because at heart Edyth believed there was truth behind them. The King was disgruntled with Harold for bringing her here. Harold’s mother and father, Beorn, had made her so welcome which, perhaps, had only served to heighten the petty jealousy. Edyth pitied Harold’s sister, a girl expected to make a marriage of convenience to a man many years her senior. Harold squeezed her waist and she glanced up at him, the smile in her eyes matching the one on her mouth. How could she have been so fortunate to have found herself so fine a man?

  The boats were nearing when something happened – two keels collided. There was a collective gasp as everyone craned forward to see the better. Who was it? Was anyone hurt or drowning? Harold, with a few other men, including his father and the King, moved nearer the river edge. Someone was coiling a rope, making ready to toss it to a boy splashing towards the bank.

  Countess Gytha, frightened t
hat in the mêlée of oars and keels Beorn’s craft might have capsized, had run to the water’s edge with her husband. Her daughter found herself standing behind Edyth Swannhæls.

  The boys in the water had come to no harm, all were laughing, clinging to the side of one of the boats, exchanging ribald comments with spectators and fellow crew members alike. Taking advantage of the confusion, Ralf and Beorn forged ahead, their pace and steady rhythm of the oar beat unruffled by the excitement. The finishing line was so close . . .

  Edith had only to take one stride, pretend to trip, thrust out her arm . . .

  Edyth screamed as she fell. The river, rushing up towards her, deep and cold, took her under. The sunshine blueness on the surface was an illusion, for the water was muddied and dark, garbage and rubbish bobbed along its edge, raw sewage fouled it. She sank down, the surface closing over her head, her veil coming off, her gown cloying against her legs. Her boots, filled with water, becoming heavy, pulling her further towards the bottom. She tried to kick out but they held her – she was going to drown. God help her, the river was going to take her!

  Then hands were reaching for her, grabbing at her, fingers clutching her clothing, twisting tight, refusing to let go. She kicked again and another hand had hold of her cloak, was pulling her upwards – her head broke through to precious air. She opened her mouth, found it hard to breathe; they held her firm, those strong hands, pulled and pushed at her, brought her up and into a boat, that was, once she was safe, being rowed towards the steps.

  Ralf had seen her fall, had instantly ordered his crew to veer from their course, his keen eyes trained on the ripples where the woman had disappeared. He leant out from the bows, flailed with his hands, by some miracle caught hold of her before she sank too deep. The river was more than twelve feet here at high tide. Beorn had seen the fall at almost the same instant as his rival and steered his craft alongside Ralf’s, helping to bring the woman up while the two crews held the boats steady. The other competitors flowed past them, the race open for anyone to take. For Ralf and Beorn it was over.

  Harold was there, grey-faced. He had her, hauled her to him, half pushed, half carried her to firm ground. Everyone was clustering around, concerned, the race forgotten. Gytha, the Queen, Godwine. Her sodden hair tangled, tears falling, teeth chattering, hands shaking, Edyth clung to Harold. Countess Gytha removed her cloak and set it about the girl’s shoulders. ‘We must get her home, see she is warmed and dried.’ Gytha’s normal calm had disappeared for she had seen, as had Harold, that the girl could not swim. Knew as well as he, Ralf, Beorn, or any Londoner the treacherous currents that this river could hide.

  Knew, as well as Harold, that she had not fallen by accident.

  Edyth allowed herself to be swept into Harold’s strong arms. She clung to his neck, her misery dark and pressing. He pushed through the crowd, his mother at his side.

  ‘I will have her hide for this,’ Harold muttered.

  Edyth heard, lifted her head. Harold’s sister had pushed her, but she would not add to the feud that was already germinating between them. ‘I slipped,’ she said, her voice raw. ‘It was my fault, I stepped too close to the edge to see the race better.’

  Harold stopped, gazed down at her. Gods, but how his heart had thudded with fear as he watched her body sink under that water! He would never, for the rest of his life, forget the sound of her scream.

  ‘Please, my lover,’ she said again. ‘Leave it. I slipped.’

  Taking a breath to steady the pounding in his chest, Harold touched his lips lightly against hers. He nodded, then looked hard at his sister, who had taken refuge beside Edward. The King had flounced back to his chair, pouting in his disappointment. It was no consolation that, though Ralf had not won, neither had Beorn.

  Edith put her hand on to the carved high back of the throne, her movement declaring her immunity. I am the future queen. Do you dare challenge me, brother?

  Harold stared at her, unimpressed by her bravado. ‘My wife slipped,’ he said aloud while his eyes conveyed to his sister, but I know damned well that you pushed her. Turning on his heel, he strode towards where the horses were tethered, his housecarls shouldering a path through the crowd, who were still intent on the excitement of the race.

  Edith bit hard into her lip, her hands taking hold of her cloak, screwing the folds into tight-clenched bunches. What had she done? What had possessed her? She had only meant to . . . had not wanted to . . . had not realised that Edyth could not swim. Her family, all of them, born and raised beside the sea, were like otters in the water. But Edyth was of the land-folk, knew nothing of swimming.

  She had been pleasant and kind too, had attempted to be friendly, to offer conversation, and what had Edith given in return? Snubs and insults. Rapidly she blinked away tears. She must not weep, not here in view of the whole of London. She turned to Edward for moral support, tentatively laying her hand upon his arm. This turmoil that eddied and churned in her stomach would disappear once they were married, once she was settled and happy.

  Edward had not noticed her, or that brief, hostile exchange with her brother. He was busy demanding of the river master that the race be declared void. He shrugged Edith’s hand from his arm as if she were of no more consequence to him than the irritation of a fly.

  16

  Winchester – January 1045 Emma thrust open the door to the bed-chamber and curtly dismissed the agitated maidservant. The girl who had fetched the King’s mother here scuttled away with her, both relieved at having the burden of responsibility so easily removed.

  Emma strode to the bed, tore aside the partially closed brocade curtaining with one hand and, with the other, ripped back the bed coverings of white-bear fur and best linen. Edith, merely curled even tighter into a foetal ball. She lay naked and cold, made no further movement, no response to Emma’s sharp reprimand. ‘Get you from this bed, child! It is morning and the court will be awaiting their new anointed queen. I thought that fool of a girl to be exaggerating when she came in such a fluster. I see she was not.’ With less patience and more force, she added, ‘Have I wasted my time these last months instructing a lazy good-for-nothing slugabed?’

  Receiving no reply, Emma turned away impatiently and began sorting through the garments laid ready across a wooden chest. The undergarments and hose were of imported silk, the gown of the finest spun blue wool, hemmed by gold embroidery, and the white veil was of a lightweight linen, edged with detailed gold stitching. ‘You have the Council to greet and your first charter as queen to witness and publish. As was agreed, it is to be a gift of land to the Minster here at Winchester and is to include, in gratitude for your ceremony of marriage yesterday, fifty shillings to aid the ill and poor of this city.’ With an audible exhalation of irritation, Emma returned to the bed, snatched at Edith’s arm, attempting to pull her forcibly to her feet. ‘Get up!’ she roared. ‘How dare you defy me!’

  She was rewarded by the sound of an escaping desperate sob. ‘I am not queen. I will never be queen, nor wife!’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Emma clamped her long fingers around Edith’s bare arm and hauled her to sit upright. The girl’s body was slight, the skin white and unblemished; broad-hipped, slim-waisted, her fair hair rippling loose down her back and over her shoulders, covering firm, rose-bud breasts. ‘Yester-afternoon on the steps of the Minster you were wed to my son in full view of the populace of Winchester. You were then taken to kneel before God’s holy altar where you were crowned and anointed Queen of England.’ Emma made no attempt to conceal the note of triumph. That the marriage had taken place at all was little short of a miracle, what with Edward’s constant excuses and his pathetic, delaying little illnesses. First the wedding was to have been at Michaelmas, then Advent. Postponed to Christmas, New Year – but yesterday, the twenty-third day of January, the last possible day before the earls and assembled nobility and men of importance made ready to return to their estates and supervisions, Edward had finally bowed to the inevitable and had taken Edith Godwine
sdaughter as wife.

  The months in between had not been wasted for, to Robert Champart’s chagrin, Edith had spent them almost in their entirety with Emma. Now all the dowager waited for was the first son to be born. The role of doting grandmother appealed, suited her admirably. A quiet life spent in leisure and comfort, with the dear child playing at her feet and learning under her instruction. Queen by proxy. Most satisfactory.

  Tossing the clothes draped across her arm on to the bed, Emma curtly ordered the girl to dress. ‘Since I have had to dismiss the servants, to minimise the gossip that will spread on the tongues of the idle, you must attire yourself – oh, for goodness’ sake, child, stop that ridiculous snivelling! Do you think I took pleasure from my wedding night with Æthelred? Do you think many maids actually enjoy the rutting of the first night with their husband? No doubt it was a painful and unpleasant experience, but you will become used to it. Most of us do.’

  It was too much. Edith’s temper exploded. She propelled herself to her feet, her fists bunching as she spat her hurt and frustration in a torrent of venom. ‘Do you think that is why I have shed these tears?’ she shouted. ‘Do you think that is why I am ashamed to leave this bed, this room? Because of the discomfort thrust upon my body by my husband? What discomfort, madam? Nothing happened in this bed last night. Your bloody son did nothing!’

  It was rare for Emma to be struck speechless. She stood mute, lips parted, attempting to understand. The celebration after the lengthy religious ceremony had followed usual tradition: the sharing of the bride ale, feasting and drinking with entertainment by acrobats and harpers. Come evening, the couple had been undressed and set together side by side in the marriage bed. What did the girl mean, nothing had happened? Of course something had happened!