New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  She had emphasised the word prince, giving the lord of Wales his correct title, highlighting Harold’s lack of respect.

  ‘I know of Welsh ponies from my mother. I have had such ponies for my own since before I could walk.’ She tossed her head again and went to Beowulf, making her presence known by offering her hand for him to scent before touching him.

  ‘He has the distinct dish to his face, a bold eye and a broad forehead, with small, well-set ears.’ She cupped her hand around one to prove her point, only the tip protruding from her lightly clasped fist. ‘A pony ought not resemble a mule. His neck ought to be of good length, the shoulder sloping to a good wither. Your stallion can carry weight over long distances, but with it, he is agile and light-footed.’ She ran her hand to his knee, indicating the strong joint, the flat bone. Then she cocked her head to one side to look at Earl Harold. ‘Well?’

  Harold inclined his head. ‘He has half-Welsh blood in him, aye. His mother came from the mountains.’ He raised one eyebrow, indicating the land across the river. ‘As did yours.’

  Alditha returned Harold’s assessing look boldly. He knew her breeding as well as he did that of the horse. ‘My mother was the daughter of Iago ap Idwal, son of the line of Hywel Dda and Rhodri Mawr. She died when I was a child of ten years old.’

  ‘Then you ought not have liking for Gruffydd. It was he who murdered your grandfather and took the title of prince from the dynasty of Gwynedd for himself, yet your father, her husband, would rather pledge his loyalty to the Welsh than those of us of his own kind?’

  ‘I have no liking for Gruffydd, but he is at least a man who keeps his word. Unlike the English King.’

  Harold laughed outright, head back, hands going to his hips. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, spluttering, ‘but the innocence of the naïve is refreshing. Gruffydd? A man of his word? Ah no, my little lady, he keeps only those words that suit him.’

  ‘Can you say that Edward is any the better?’ she retorted. ‘Has he respected my father or rewarded him?’ Her dark eyes flashed diamond sparks of anger at Harold’s mockery.

  God’s teeth, but she is going to be a beauty within a year or two, Harold thought. ‘The King has treated Ælfgar as he deserves, Mistress Alditha. And as for his merits? What merits would they be? None come immediately to mind.’

  Again that flash of anger in her eyes, that proud toss to her head. She turned on her heel, intending to stalk away. ‘You dislike my father, but you have him wrong. He is a man of courage and pride, a man who cherishes his family and who weeps, still, for the Welshwoman he once had as wife.’

  Her acerbic tone stung, but Harold was not one who took kindly to unjust accusations. He lunged forward and clutched her arm, answering her with the curt abruptness of the truth: ‘I do not dislike your father, girl, but neither do I respect him. He has the false courage of a fool and the pride of the vain. He thinks nothing of you nor your two younger brothers. He despises his second wife for her independent wealth and her good breeding. He has been disloyal to his own father. He may weep copiously for your mother, my dear, when under the eye of Gruffydd’s court, but he did not show her affection when she was his wife. I am older than you, your father’s temper has always been harsh. I never saw him treat your mother with kindness.’

  Alditha attempted to prise his fingers from her arm, her eyes glaring into his, contempt matching contempt. Her anger was made the worse for knowing he spoke the truth. ‘My father said that those of you from Wessex were the whelps of a cur! He was right!’ she snarled, piercing the skin of his hand with her fingernails.

  Harold yelped, but held on. ‘That he probably was,’ he retorted, ‘but it takes a cur to sniff out a cur.’

  The girl swung her free arm intending to slap Harold’s face, but with the quick reaction of a fighting man he caught her wrist. Furious, she began struggling and kicking, her boot connecting several times with his shin. Harold held her body away from him so that her flying feet swiped ineffectually at empty air. Gods, but she was a firebrand! She had most certainly inherited the wild and dangerous nature of the Welsh from her mother. He did not know whether to tip her over his knee for a beating, or put his mouth to hers and kiss her. Were she not so young and vulnerable . . . by the Christ, perhaps it was time to return home to Edyth! He needed a woman.

  ‘Your father cares only for the wealth and prestige of an earldom, naught else,’ he panted, parrying another of her kicks by sidestepping. ‘Why else would you now be back on English soil? Why else has he already bowed his knee in homage to Edward? Yes, Leofwine, you seek me?’ Harold darted a look at the young man who was approaching at a trot, his arm waving frantically, calling Harold’s name.

  ‘Aye! The King is shouting for you, in a torrent of rage.’ Leofwine, Harold’s younger brother, drew to a halt, panting slightly, his knowing grin admiring the girl struggling in Harold’s grasp. ‘It seems’, he continued, without taking his eyes from her, ‘that Edward is about to revoke the entire agreement that you and Earl Leofric have so painstakingly brokered. Gruffydd flatly refuses to cross the river, has sent a messenger to say that Edward must go to him. Our tactful king has threatened to slit that messenger’s nose and return word that he will do the same to Gruffydd for his insolence.’

  Harold’s attention being occupied, Alditha took her chance and sank her teeth into his hand. Yelling, he let her go; instantly, she darted away. ‘My father allies to Gruffydd because the Prince of Wales is not a weakling fool like Edward. Your king will never outmatch either of them.’ Then she was gone, with nothing but the call of an alarmed blackbird to mark that she had been there. And the teeth marks in Harold’s hand.

  He winced, inspected the wound. She had drawn blood. ‘I agree with you about our king, my pretty one,’ he said, then, louder, his hand cupped to his mouth, shouted after her, ‘but it will not be Edward who goes to war against Gruffydd! It will be me!’

  ‘I thought you were going to kiss her,’ Leofwine said, desperately attempting to keep the grin from his cheeks.

  ‘I was,’ Harold answered. ‘But the damn girl bit me instead.’

  Had Edward stamped his foot, or lain down on his belly and kicked the rush-matting floor, Harold would not have been surprised. More often than not, the King behaved absurdly like a child when he was outmanoeuvred.

  ‘I have given orders to break camp!’ he shouted.

  ‘And I have countermanded them,’ Harold responded patiently. ‘You cannot do that!’

  ‘I can. I have. On your order, as your most able earl, I command

  the army, Sire. It is for me to judge what is prudent for the fyrd. It is not prudent to escalate a minor misunderstanding into a war.’

  Almost apoplectic, Edward spluttered his rage. ‘Minor misunderstanding? Good God, this is nothing of the sort – it is an outright insult, sir! Outright insult!’

  God’s truth , Harold thought, I see why my father was so often out of temper when returning from Edward’s court. I would rather face Gruffydd than try to persuade the King the meaning of diplomacy!

  ‘Sire,’ Earl Leofric interrupted. ‘It took Wessex and myself many wearisome days to bring about this peace. I have had to swallow my pride and forgive my son. In order to accommodate his reinstatement, Earl Harold’s brothers Gyrth and Leofwine have willingly surrendered Oxfordshire and Anglia that was divided between them on my son’s exile. We have all, in some way, had to concede something.’

  ‘So I must humble myself to that upstart heathen? Is that what you imply?’

  Leofric sighed. ‘No, Sire, that is not my meaning.’ Brands of fire were twisting in his stomach. His wished his good lady Godgiva were here with her cool hands and soothing potions. Ah, not long now and he would join her in heaven where pain did not exist. His contemporaries were all gone – Siward, Godwine, Emma – and he was so weary of this turbulent life.

  ‘Sire.’ Harold took a step nearer to Edward, his hands spread. ‘Gruffydd is testing us. He is trying to establish how easy it would be
to break this hard-won agreement, how deep he need poke with his stick. If we flounce away like blushing maidens whose modesty is compromised, what will he think of us? Will we not seem to him, to all the Welsh, as vulnerable as a nun in a brothel?’

  The King did not reply. Eyeing a stool, Leofric wondered if he dare ask permission to be seated. He pressed his hand to the pain in his belly. ‘It will take a wise man to outmanoeuvre Gruffydd, my Lord King, and you, Sire, I am certain, possess that wisdom.’

  Harold flashed the Earl a brief, grateful smile. They all wanted this thing done and finished. ‘Sometimes’, he said, on a wistful note, ‘it is the man who bends the knee first, who proves himself the stronger of mind and character, for it is he who can see the wisdom of preventing unnecessary bloodshed. Alas, such courage lives only in the hearts of the apostles and in Christ himself. No mortal man could willingly display such dignified humility.’

  He held his breath . . . Edward’s brows had narrowed into a thoughtful frown. He moved to a small altar placed to the rear of his tent, knelt, joined his hands and bowed his head. Harold exchanged a hopeful, pleading look with Leofric . . .

  Brusquely Edward finished his prayer, stood and commanded his cloak be brought, the ferry made ready. ‘I will not have it said that my pride created death and destruction. Let that epitaph fall on Gruffydd’s god – cursed pagan soul.’

  *

  Stunned that the King of England should so publicly discard his pride, the Welsh, on their side of the river, murmured their approval, their mutterings rising to open cheers as the ferryman poled the barge across the wide stretch of water, the King standing, benevolent and serene, in the bows.

  Gruffydd’s quick wit registered their sudden admiration and silently cursed the English for this subtle manoeuvre.

  ‘My Lord?’ The Welsh messenger sent to Edward had returned, shaken but unharmed, having been rowed in a quicker, more compact coracle. He had made his way direct to his prince, spoken quietly so that only Gruffydd might hear. ‘Sir, Lord Harold, Earl of Wessex bids me advise you in private that the wise leader takes advantage of a chance to appear the equal of his opponent. Were you to meet the English King halfway across the river . . .’

  Gruffydd guffawed. He had heard much of Harold of Wessex – aye, and his father before him. Both were men of courage and diplomatic skill. Still laughing, he plunged down the river bank and leapt aboard his own boat, ordering that he be rowed to meet with England halfway.

  Aye, he had heard much of this man, Harold. Would, no doubt, hear much more as the seasons turned.

  10

  St Omer – April 1057 Rome! Edyth could not fully believe that she had actually visited that magnificent city. Closing her eyes, she allowed her head to rest against the high back of her chair. Now that they were returned to St Omer after their months of travelling and the children were settled into their beds, she could afford the luxury of a moment’s idleness. Her body ached and her head swam, but it was not all from travel fatigue – excitement still tumbled in her heart and mind.

  ‘If you allow that grin to spread any the wider,’ Harold said, bending down to place a lingering kiss on her lips, ‘your face will split in two.’

  Lazily, Edyth opened her eyes. ‘I am blissfully content,’ she answered. ‘I have accumulated so many wondrous memories that never again shall I want for something to think about.’ She linked her arms round Harold’s neck, pulling him down closer to return his kiss. ‘I have not yet decided whether the best part was attending the lavish splendour of the court of the Holy Roman Empire in Cologne, spending Christmas at Regensburg with the Imperial party, or accompanying the Pope back to Rome.’ Her smile was a fixed sickle shape. Once, she had never expected to travel further than her own local villages along the river Lea, now she had seen the splendours of these great foreign cities. She stroked her finger across the stubble that was forming across Harold’s chin, her smile fading. ‘Stay with me and our children, Harold. We have such a great need of you.’

  Perplexed at this sudden change of mood, Harold set her on to his lap, his arms winding around her waist. She was with child again, had missed her second flux; an especial son or daughter this one would be, for its making had been in Rome. Was this perhaps a reason for the unexpected distress?

  ‘I have no intention of leaving you. What sets you thinking as such?’ Edyth laid her head against his, her own arms going about his

  shoulders. He was strong and dependable, Harold. Oh, he strayed to other women occasionally, when matters of official business kept him away from her bed . . . what vigorous man did not? The passing use of a whore, however, was different from sharing the pleasures of love. She held him tight. ‘I am tired.’

  ‘This would have nothing to do with that suggestion of marriage made to me by the Empress of Germany, would it? With her husband in his grave and a young son crowned in his stead, she perhaps has need of another man.’

  Edyth pouted. ‘I have always known that one day you must make a marriage of alliance . . .’

  Harold laughed. ‘She is fat, fifty, and has the temper and character of a fishwife. I have no ambition to become her bed-mate or her son’s tilting post.’ Setting her to her feet, Harold patted Edyth’s backside. This guest room within the abbey was both comfortable and private, but it was Friday and the physical union of a man and woman on this fasting day was discouraged by the Church. Not that he was averse to bending the rules, but coming so recently from Rome, perhaps it was best not to flaunt his needs above those of God.

  ‘Get you to bed,’ he said, trundling her in that direction. ‘I think I will go up to the castle, enquire whether any word has come from Ædward. When I confirmed his safe conduct on our outward journey last November, I gave him ’til the twelfth day of April to meet with us here in St Omer. If he is coming, he has but the morrow to arrive. I would be back in England before Easter.’

  ‘Will he come, do you think?’ Edyth asked, her hand going to unfasten her veil. She folded the linen neatly, placing hairpins safely in her jewel casket, began unbraiding her hair. ‘It has taken nigh on two years of searching throughout Hungary to find him – all that many more to remember him in the first place. Why would he want to bother with England now? England has not been bothered with him.’

  ‘He will come because Hungary is in the midst of new political upheaval. Where there is a change in leader, there is also a change of attitude towards those seeking asylum. Ædward was found, last summer, because King Andrew of Hungary wanted him to be found

  – and for that reason alone, Ædward the Exile must leave. If he cherishes his life and that of his family, that is.’

  Edyth was not convinced, but said nothing. ‘If he does not come, will you wait?’

  ‘A few days only. Like you, my Willow-bud, I have taken much pleasure in our pilgrimage travels, but I now desire to return to my own home. That chestnut mare will be foaling soon, I am eager to see if she bears as good an offspring as did her mother.’

  Edyth flashed him a smile. She knew he would be content to remain here as an honoured guest, but he understood that her heart lay within the comfort of their manor, overlooking the green peace of the valley of the river Lea, that she wanted to go home.

  Harold lay abed, dozing, reluctant to be up and about the new day. Edyth was already up, and gone to see to the children’s dressing and eating of breakfast. A rapping on the door startled Harold awake; he sat up quickly, rubbed at his nose and chin. Bleary-eyed and mildly disorientated, he stumbled towards the latch, swung the door open. Beyond stood a thin man of medium height, his hair and beard greygrizzled, with eyes of a dark, slate grey. Beside him was a woman, younger, but also thin. Their dress, although not shabby, was more practical than ostentatious. Harold took them to be folk of a middle merchant rank.

  Nervously, the man licked at his lips. There was sweat on his brow. He extended his hand, the palm up, and spoke in German. ‘You are the Earl Harold?’

  The woman had already assessed Harold
’s appearance, taking in his stance, height and build, the weave of the tunic thrown hurriedly over his nakedness when he had come to answer the door. She nodded, once, as if satisfied with what she saw. ‘You are much as we expected you to be.’

  Harold raised an eyebrow and gestured with his hand for them to enter.

  ‘It is a fine place, this abbey,’ the stranger said. ‘My wife and children are delighted with our accommodation, although it is somewhat close to the piggeries. We did not often see such fine building in Hungary.’

  The muzziness of sleep slipped from Harold’s brain and a grin of delight slid across his face. He marched back to the man, took his hand and pumped it in vigorous welcome. ‘Ædward? You are Ædward the Exile? It is good to meet you, Sir! And you, my dear lady, must be Agatha! Come, sit, sit, make yourselves comfortable.’

  Harold served wine, then asked, candidly, ‘You will come to England, Sir? You must, for there is no one else suitable to follow on to the throne.’

  Ædward cast a tentative smile at his host. As he had expected from all that he had gleaned of this man during the long weeks of travelling from Hungary through Germany to St Omer, the Earl of Wessex was a likeable man. ‘I have heard much of your courage and strength, Harold Godwinesson,’ he confided. ‘I understand that your patience and diplomacy is much admired and that you are well known and liked – whereas I . . .’ He paused. ‘Whereas I am unknown beyond name and status. Ædward. An exile. What else do you know of me beyond those two limited facts, Earl Harold? Yes, I am prepared to go to England with you – else I would not have come all this way. I admit that I am flattered that the Council should have so much faith in me – but it has taken a long time for England to remember me.’ He looked up at Harold with wide, saddened eyes. ‘More than thirty years.’

  Harold took time to pour himself wine. Aye, England was adept at forgetting her born sons: this haggard man; Edward himself for all those years; his own brother and nephew still held hostage in Normandy with no diplomatic hope of securing their return. He seated himself opposite his two guests. When the Council had decided to try to find the Exile, they had never considered Ædward’s attitude to it, assuming from the start that he would be all too eager to return to the land of his birth, would accept without question the hero’s welcome and status of ætheling. Nor had they considered the toll that the passing of years might set upon a man’s shoulders. Ædward was not old, but neither was he young. His shoulders stooped and his body, without doubt, was frail.