New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  Seeing his furrowed brow and following the obvious thoughts, Agatha spoke up: ‘For the first few years of exile my husband was too young to understand anything except the urgent need to flee. It is hard for a small child to watch the shadows in case a dagger blade should be hidden there. He had no settled home, no security, but travelled from court to court, from one place of safety to another. Now England has sudden need of him. He has a wife and family now, contentment and security. Why should we give up all we have to return, on the whim of your Council and your childless king, to a land that neither of us knows or cares for and that speaks a tongue that we do not understand?’

  Harold answered her just as bluntly, speaking also in German. ‘Because you will want for nothing in England. You and your children will live within the King’s court. Your settlement beside the collection of hovels that is Budapest could never be as comfortable as that. Your children’s future never as secure—’

  ‘I have your word that Edgar will become ætheling after me?’ Ædward interrupted. ‘And that suitable marriages for my daughters are guaranteed?’

  Harold nodded.

  ‘I must have proof,’ Ædward snapped.

  Harold gestured agreement with his palm open. ‘It is agreed. I

  brought with me from England written documents signed by the King to contract it so. It is Edward’s own wish that you follow him, that you are returned to your home and your family.’

  At that Ædward appeared satisfied.

  ‘What if the Council of England decides against my husband?’ Agatha asked. ‘A king must, after all, be elected by common agreement. When those Englishmen of the Witan meet with Ædward they may decide they do not want him after all. What of my son then?’

  Uncertain whether he liked this woman for her forthrightness, or whether she was just too blunt, Harold answered with a laugh, although there was a slight hesitancy in the sound. ‘We have gone to great expense and trouble to locate you, to bring you even this far. There is no one suitable to follow Edward. The agreement will not change.’

  Ædward had half finished his wine. A small round table stood beside the hearth bench; he leaned forward to set his goblet down, missed the edge and the thing tumbled, splashing wine over his legs and lap. Harold leapt to his feet, but Agatha was there before him, patting at the mess, Ædward profusely apologising.

  ‘Forgive my clumsiness, I did not watch what I was doing.’

  ‘’Tis no matter,’ Harold responded. ‘Here, let me fetch you more wine.’ He retrieved the goblet, went to refill it. He was glad he had his back to the room when Agatha suddenly spoke again: ‘Why do you support the seeking of my husband? Have you no ambition for a crown?’ The question was candid and totally unexpected.

  ‘Me? King?’ Harold spluttered. ‘My grandfather was a thegn turned pirate! My connection with the royal line is at best dubious and only through the distaff line.’

  Ædward smiled at that, holding out his hand for the refilled goblet. ‘The Duke of Normandy’s grandfather was a tanner, yet he appears to be doing well enough for himself.’

  ‘Normandy has different laws and customs from those of England.’ Harold’s answer was terse. He? King? He had never thought on it. By God, if it were the duty and responsibility alone that counted for kingship, then he already possessed the title! It was he, Harold, as senior earl, who all but ruled England. He saw that the laws were made and obeyed; he led the army into war, not Edward. He shook his head, thrust that brief flicker of a potentially treasonous thought aside, said with conviction, ‘You are the man we want, Sir, for you are the son of Edmund Ironside. Not I.’

  ‘For my sins, Earl Harold, that, indeed, I am. But answer me this. What if I should die before Edward and he dies before my son comes of age? Who will become king of England then, eh?’

  Harold could only shrug.

  Agatha opened the door, threaded her arm through her husband’s. ‘We shall be ready to leave for England as and when you wish.’

  Listening to the sound of their footsteps diminishing outside, Harold thoughtfully nursed the goblet between his hands. There had been something strange about Ædward, something that went beyond the unexpected ageing of a man who was only a matter of three or so years older than himself.

  The Lady Agatha, too, was a puzzle. Forthright with her views, yet like a cat walking on hot bricks. Perhaps it was nothing more than their trepidation at returning after so long to England where, despite the assurances of agreement, nothing was, or ever could be, unbreakably guaranteed.

  11

  Westminster Tostig stripped off his gloves as he entered the Queen’s chamber, unfastened his cloak and gave that, too, to a servant. Shivered and headed for the fire. April and the welcoming of spring? Sleet was falling and if the easterly wind were to shift more to the north there would undoubtedly be a return of the snow that had huddled most of England within doors since mid February.

  ‘So he has arrived?’ Edith asked, barely masking her indifference, only briefly glancing up from the writing of a letter to her mother. The Countess remained at Bosham for most of the year – and who could blame her? The roads were rutted and mired, the distance tedious and uncomfortable. Edith considered it her duty to write every so often, to enquire after her health and tell of Edward’s and her own.

  ‘London stinks,’ Tostig complained. ‘The streets are running with sewage and there are drowned rats everywhere. Edward was wise to build this palace a few miles from the city. There will be plague before long, mark my word.’ He clicked his fingers at a servant to bring a chair nearer the hearth. ‘Aye, Ædward and his family are in London, comfortably accommodated in the house Edward has given them. Once they have rested and settled, they will come to the palace.’ He picked at some dirt beneath his fingernail. ‘If you think that is still a wise idea.’

  Setting her quill into its stand, Edith half turned to face him. ‘And why would I not?’ she questioned, alert to what he was not saying.

  The dirt removed, Tostig inspected the nails on his other hand. Cleanliness of the hands was essential. You could judge a man’s quality by his nails. ‘Ædward, our returned exile,’ he casually informed his sister, ‘is blind – well, as near as may be.’

  Edith stared at him as if he had spoken in an incomprehensible language.

  ‘Harold told me and then I witnessed it for myself,’ Tostig continued, recrossing his legs and leaning back in the chair. Ædward’s nails had been filthy; Tostig had clasped his lower arm and wrist in greeting, had not fancied putting his palm against that clammy, dirtied one. ‘Our brother suspected something was wrong while in St Omer – discovered it for certain during the sea crossing. Which means, of course, that we do have a problem. A man cannot be deemed kingworthy if he has no sight.’

  Edith digested the news, was silent for two whole minutes. ‘And why, then,’ she asked, ‘was this not mentioned before we went to all the bother of bringing him to England?’

  ‘Why indeed? May I suggest, perhaps, because the Lady Agatha is desperate for better prospects than a Hungarian peasant’s hovel for her son and two daughters?’

  Edith rose, wandered around the room, her fingers linked, tapping against her lips as she thought, her astute mind calculating. ‘You imply that Agatha deliberately disguised her husband’s affliction?’

  Tostig nodded. ‘So Harold does believe. Would you have not done the same?’

  Edith ceased her pacing and resettled herself at the writing desk. What would she have done? Proclaimed the truth and forsaken all hope of a secure future? A wry smile twisted one side of her mouth upwards. ‘Most certainly, had I a son with a good chance of becoming king.’ She fluttered her fingers at the two servants, bidding them be gone from the room, wrote another two sentences to her mother. She also knew what she would be willing to do next and was mildly surprised at discerning, for perhaps the first time in her life, the ruthless streak that pierced her. Surprised, but not shocked. The need for self-preservation had hardened her more
with every passing year.

  Alone with her brother, with no ear to overhear and therefore no mischievous tongue to wag, she said in a lowered, conspiring tone, ‘We must ensure that the lady’s hopes for her son are not disappointed. The boy must be declared ætheling.’

  ‘Which he cannot if his father is denied the title.’ Tostig’s reply was testy, stating the obvious.

  Edith completed a last sentence, signed her name, Ædith Regina, with a flourish and sprinkled fine sand over the parchment to dry the ink.

  ‘Le roi est mort, vive le roi. There is no one else. If there is no father to become ætheling, then the child will become kingworthy.’

  Pinching his moustache and upper lip between thumb and index finger, Tostig sat quiet for a long moment. Then he said guardedly, ‘But loss of sight is not life threatening, sister.’

  ‘Is it not, brother? You are wrong. In certain circumstances – if, say, a suggestion is whispered in the right ear, such an affliction can be deadly.’ She fingered the gold crucifix at her throat, wondering at her own calmness. ‘We must ensure that Edward does not meet with his nephew. He has become a sentimental fool of late.’ Her words came slowly as the plan that had lodged in her mind became clearer. ‘You said yourself there will be plague in London – Edward can be easily persuaded to stay away and we can use the same excuse to keep Ædward within the city walls. For as long as it takes.’

  Tostig frowned and slumped deeper into his chair, as if shrinking away from the implications. ‘I am not sure that I like what I think you are suggesting.’

  Edith lifted her head, defiant as always when her mind was set. ‘Nor do I much like the prospect of losing my crown after Edward has gone. Of not having the security of a son.’ She walked to her brother’s side, laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘Edgar is a child, too young to rule should Edward die within the next few years.’ Her fingers gripped tighter. ‘Edward has become most fond of you, Tostig. I would suggest that you nurture that friendship.’

  Tostig jerked his shoulder away from her touch. ‘He fawns over me, patting and petting me like a favoured hound. I hate it.’

  ‘Hate Edward as much as you like, Tostig. But would the title of regent not come as a good reward? A fair exchange for a little tolerance and the implanting of a delicate suggestion to a desperate wife?’

  Tostig could hardly believe he had truly grasped his sister’s meaning. Truth and fear of God had always been his mainstay, but so far, where had that got him? Always his elder brothers had received the accolades, the kudos. What was there for him? Northumbria! That bloody, godforsaken wilderness! He could be as good as – better than – Harold were he only given the chance to prove it. He said quietly, afraid to put thoughts into words, lest once spoken they could not be reclaimed, ‘You mean murder?’

  Indulgently, Edith smiled. ‘No, my dear. I mean ensuring a fretful mother sees to it that her son will be chosen as ætheling.’

  12

  Falaise Judith, helping to tidy away the mess that always accumulated with a birth, bundled soiled linen into the arms of a servant and glanced with a mixture of adoration and jealousy at her sister’s new son. After all these years of marriage to Tostig Godwinesson, Judith’s womb had never quickened. She was barren. A fact she could normally accept with equanimity, but at times like this, when the cry of the new-born tugged at her emotions, it was a fact that carried much pain. She was a good woman, Judith, would have made just as good a mother as her sister Mathilda, Duchess of Normandy. She sighed, gathered the last of the linen and piled it atop the servant’s already cumbersome burden, giving instruction that it was to be taken immediately to be laundered, lest the stains became immovable.

  The birthing had been an easy one, over within two hours, but then Mathilda, for all her lack of height, had wide hips and three previous children. Only by chance was Judith still here at Falaise to be of assistance, for a month already had she and Tostig been guests of her sister’s husband at this castle where William had been born. Falaise was the town where his mother had lived with her father the tanner; where Duke Robert had first set eyes on her.

  They would have returned to England – to Tostig’s earldom of Northumbria – had travel to the northern coast of Normandy been safe. But William was once again at odds with Henry of France, the two men locked in bull-horned determination to be rid of each other. Henry had entered Normandy from the west, two weeks past, as a hot July smouldered into August and was busy making his presence known by ravaging and burning all in his path, pushing the destruction northwards towards Bayeux and Caen. William, intent on his wife’s confinement, appeared unconcerned by the outrage. He contented himself with summoning his forces to muster at Falaise and waited for the birth of his son. And for Henry to make a mistake.

  Mathilda thought her third son perfect – his father, peering at the infant sucking greedily at her breast, grunted that he was the ugliest thing he had ever seen. Laughing, she amiably dismissed his rudeness. ‘Ah William, you have said that of all our nouveau-nés. Children are often like shrivelled little grapes when they first come into the world!’

  ‘I do not recall the other three having such puckered crimson faces. This crab-apple appears overripened.’

  Judith successfully masked her shock at her brother-in-law’s insults. She would have been devastated had Tostig said anything so callous about a child, but Mathilda was unperturbed. She had long ago realised that her husband possessed no paternal feelings for her babies. It would be different when the boys were men grown, when they could fight at their father’s side.

  An uneasy silence had fallen among the group of men invited into the chamber to greet their duke’s son. Judith noted their discomfort; they too were dismayed at William’s apparent dislike of the boy. Someone had to say something.

  ‘What are you to name him?’ she asked, closing the door behind the last of the servants and casting a professional eye over the reconstructed order of the chamber. She expected her brother-inlaw to answer, but it was Mathilda who commented.

  ‘I think William would be suitable, do you not agree, husband?’ She tipped her head at the Duke, who once more was bending over his son with an expression of acute repugnance. He straightened and shrugged with a gesture of indifference, replying that he was not certain he cared for the boy to be named after him.

  ‘I am not suggesting we name him after you!’ Mathilda responded indignantly. ‘Why, the poor mite will feel daunted enough as it is by your high expectations. Non, this is for our dear friend, William fitz Osbern.’ She regarded the man standing a pace or so behind her husband and held her hand out for him to kiss. With a polite bow, fitz Osbern raised his fingers to his lips.

  ‘Do you not consider that Will deserves such reward?’ Mathilda asked her husband. ‘This tiny man sucking so strongly at my teat might not have been blessed with the good fortune of having you as his father, were it not for Will’s loyalty in protecting your back these past many years.’

  Judith was completely stunned at her sister’s pert boldness, but then, Mathilda had always had a mind of her own. A woman’s duty, Judith had often reminded her, was to be obedient first to her father and then to her lord husband. That lesson had obviously fallen on muffled ears. Judith, however, was measuring her sister’s marriage against her own. Tostig was a strict, rigid, no-nonsense man who, although Judith would never openly admit it, was lacking in imagination and humour. Mathilda would have died of boredom were she wed to Tostig. He might offer stability but William offered the thing Mathilda had always yearned for and which Judith envied: excitement.

  The Duke set a brief, chaste kiss on his wife’s cheek. ‘I shall consider your suggestion,’ he said, a spark of amusement shining in his eyes. ‘Though Rufus – red face – would suit him the better.’

  Mathilda beamed at him. Perhaps she alone of all people, save for his mother, knew how William thought and why he acted as he did. To no other living person could he open the window into his heart and soul, for
to the deceit and wickedness of the world he had to show unwavering strength. There was no room for weakness. None other save perhaps fitz Osbern could be permitted to witness any crack in his defences that could make him vulnerable. Too many in the past had turned against William, had traded trust and friendship for lies and hostility: guardians, uncles, vassals – Henry of France himself.

  Despite the cruelty that she knew was within him, Mathilda had no fear of her husband, for she had given him her body and her heart. Whether he reciprocated with love, she was uncertain. If love meant treating her as his equal, not abusing her verbally or physically in public or private, sharing passion in the intimacy of their bed and never having need of another woman, then she was content.

  ‘Come, my friends,’ the Duke said, clapping his hands together and rubbing the palms in a familiar gesture that signalled his desire to apply his mind to work not relaxation. ‘Let us leave the ladies to their women’s business and be about our own.’ He clamped his broad hand on fitz Osbern’s shoulder as they passed through the door. ‘Of course, I shall expect the compliment of naming my son after you to be returned when your own wife is safe delivered of her first child.’

  Fitz Osbern guffawed outright. ‘It is already decided so, my Lord! William be it a lad, Mathilda if a lass.’

  ‘Outright fawning will get you everywhere, my dear friend!’ The Duke’s laughter echoed back up the winding steps, amplified by the slabs of stone. This castle at Falaise was impregnable, one of his best-fortified.