New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  At least this building could be cleared and rebuilt. How much damage would his brother’s thirst for power cause? A mere trickle, a full flood – or annihilation? And Duke William? How much of a threat was he to England? If Edward lived and Edgar came of age, then none at all. But what if Edward fell ill, or met with an accident while hunting? What then for England, should William rise and batter at the cracking, insubstantial banks?

  There was nothing more to be done in this part of the valley, save wait for the water to go down. Perhaps if they had been better prepared, if the banks had been strengthened earlier . . . perhaps.

  There is little I can do to divert Tostig from his track of madness, Harold thought as he and his son walked to where the horses waited. But I can keep an eye to Normandy. Wait and see whether the tide rises.

  * That night, with the thick curtaining pulled close around the bed and with an iced wind beginning to moan through the thatch and rafters, Harold lay with Edyth, their bodies entwined after the giving and taking of shared love.

  ‘There will never be another woman that I love as much as you, Edyth,’ Harold said into the darkness.

  Edyth snuggled herself closer to his firm solidity. ‘Love’, she said, her breath brushing his chest, ‘has little to do with marriage.’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ he answered. A pause, a minute, two. Which takes precedence, he thought, echoing his words to Goddwin earlier in the day, danger to yourself and your immediate family, or ... your country?

  The selfish choice of his family’s need was the obvious one to make, but he was responsible for a wider family, for Wessex and, perhaps, if God was not prepared to give them time, for all England. If Edward were to die before Edgar was old enough then, without doubt, William would make a bid for the throne. That Harold could not allow. Nor could he allow Tostig to unleash a civil war.

  With surprising calm, he said, ‘I do not intend, for the foreseeable future at least, to annul this betrothal with William’s daughter. He backed me into a corner, but that does not mean I am defeated. If I escape his trap by allying with him as son-in-law, then that is what I shall do. Although I intend to secure my position before any formal wedding may take place.’

  Edyth made no comment.

  ‘There is a chance’, he added, his words coming slowly as the thoughts formed more clearly in his mind, his hand gently stroking the softness of her chamomile-scented, unbound hair, ‘that I may decide to proffer myself to the Council as ætheling, should there be no suitable successor. I cannot let England stand vulnerable.’

  Edyth made no answer, no movement. Her only thought was that Harold had taken a damned long while to see the only possible path open to him.

  8

  Britford As the summer green had mellowed to autumn reds and golds, rebellion in Northumbria flared from a few feeble sparks into a full, wind-fanned blaze. Individual grievances varied but amounted, in the end, to much the same thing – a hatred of Tostig.

  Once too often had he used the law to claim land for himself from those who opposed him – it was not only the estates of Gamal Ormsson and Ulf Dolfinsson, of Gospatric Uhtredsson, that had been taken into the Earl’s private keeping. Settlements, farmsteadings, a few hides here, two or three more there . . . gradually Tostig was building his holding of land and wealth by taking what he could in forfeit of alleged crimes and supposedly unpaid debts, while more and more families found themselves destitute or outlawed.

  Taxes were to be collected at the end of the summer, the joyous time of harvest, but this year of the Lord 1065, there was little celebration north of the Humber river. By decree of Earl Tostig, the tax demand was, once again, to rise. The North, mistrustful of ambitious magpies from the South and already crippled beneath the financial burden, finally broke and refused to pay.

  Tostig Godwinesson’s heavy hand had become too much for it. The Earl cared as little for the northern land-folk as he did for the desolate land itself. He had no patience with the local dialects, which he found unintelligible and coarse; he sneered at the poverty; found no reason to endanger the lives of his housecarls in pointless reprisal against Scots raiders. As long as the troubles did not come uncomfortably close to his palace at York, Tostig reckoned there was little worth fighting over. If Malcolm of Scotland wanted a few more mangy sheep, had nothing better to do than burn a few peasants’ crofts, then let the fool waste his time and energy.

  Tostig rarely travelled further north than York – occasionally he visited Durham, where he was received well, but then he and his lady, Countess Judith, had always supported the cathedral with lavish gifts and donations – nor did he remain in his earldom any longer than he deemed necessary. Late spring to autumn sufficed. By mid-September he was riding south to join King Edward in Wiltshire, where the hunting was especially fine. Coincidence, of course, that his leaving occurred just as his tax gatherers set out with their neatly written documents, oxen-hauled wagons and swords hung loose at their sides in case of trouble.

  The rebellion began on an estate where a sudden skirmish led to the accidental slaying of a tax collector, and escalated rapidly. A few disgruntled thegns joined with aggrieved freemen – ah, it did not take long for one flame to become fire. They marched south, the band swelling into an army as with each mile more men – young, old, rich and poor, armed with axe, sword, hoe and pitchfork – gathered together in protest against southern tyranny. Their destination, York, Earl Tostig’s capital.

  He had misjudged the smouldering anger. Through the rain-wet summer his spies and scouts had not informed him of the growing discontent, for they too had northern blood. On the third day of October the rebel army reached their destination. The city threw open its gates in welcome, and all who supported the absent Earl were slaughtered without mercy, housecarls, retainers and servants. The heads of tax collectors were hoisted to feed the carrion crows above Micklagata, where criminals and rogues were ignominiously displayed – where, not so long past, Tostig had ordered the heads of Gamal Ormsson and Ulf Dolfinsson be put.

  The northern aristocracy of elders, thegns and nobles took possession of Tostig’s considerable arsenal and treasury and, seizing the opportunity to be permanently rid of the damned man, declared him outlaw and elected to continue south to take their grievances direct to the King.

  Northumbria had successfully risen against degradation and oppression, and in consequence a lord of high influence decided not to stand in the way of this flood-tide of anger. Eadwine of Mercia stepped quietly aside as the Northumbrians swept southward, making no attempt to bar the men from swathing a path through his earldom.

  But then, Eadwine had his own reason for supporting the rise of the North against Tostig of Wessex. Astutely, the noble-born who had raised the rebellion had invited Eadwine’s landless younger brother, Morkere, to lead them. Morkere, son of Ælfgar, grandson of Leofric of Mercia, the North had unanimously declared, would be the more suitable and acceptable earl.

  Edward, when he heard, was furious. Rarely did he concern himself with things that interrupted his hunting, but this, this would not be tolerated. That they were not rebelling against him, their king, made no difference. The North had insulted and condemned Tostig, his most favoured friend; the insult was as deeply thrust at himself. At his integrity, judgement and word of law.

  Clench-jawed, the King sat on his throne within the small timber-built Hall at his manor of Britford, a few miles from Salisbury. Before him stood two messengers sent by the Council of the North, as that rabble called itself. At his side was Tostig, his fingers clenched around his sword hilt, face suffused with rage. Twice, Edward had to restrain his earl’s arm, else the lad would have been down off the dais and slitting those two ignorant imbeciles’ traitorous throats.

  How they had the gall to stand there and make demands, Edward could not conceive. To reinstate the law-code of Cnut, that Tostig had reneged upon; to remove him from office forthwith, replace him with Earl Morkere, duly elected by themselves. Effectively, the Anglo-Sc
andinavian population of Northumbria had reasserted its ancient right to independent authority, had demanded selfgovernment.

  Enraged, Edward had the messengers stripped of their clothing and thrown out of the gates of Britford. Let them ride naked back to Northampton where their scum friends waited. He sent no reply with them, his action taking the place of words.

  Harold ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. For several hours now had they talked around the same circle: Tostig being openly accused by the King’s hastily summoned Council of bringing the trouble on himself by his hard-fisted misgovernment; Tostig angrily countering by dismissing the rebellion as organised dissent by the Earl of Mercia and his cock-poxed brother.

  ‘They are the sons of Ælfgar!’ he shouted, hammering his clenched fist on to the table. ‘And we all remember what a traitorous whoreson he was!’

  Nursing the remnants of a head-cold, Harold was bone-tired and resented being summoned from the comfort of his manor – and Edyth’s bed – by an accursed, imbecile brother.

  ‘Eadwine and Morkere are not like their father,’ he interjected. ‘Eadwine has more sense in his little finger than Ælfgar possessed in his entire brain.’

  Tostig, his pride wounded, his confidence shaken, rounded on him. ‘Oh, aye, you would defend Eadwine! You were hunting with him not a month since – and more than your eyes have shown an interest in the sister, Alditha. You have always been sniffling round her Welsh-soiled skirts like a panting dog in search of a gutter bitch.’

  Controlling his temper with efficiency – but great difficulty – Harold considered allowing the absurd accusation to pass. His brother seemed incapable of listening to any voice that urged sense, but the untruth was too damning to let lie.

  ‘I remind you that I am already betrothed to Duke William’s daughter, Agatha. One such betrothal is sufficient. I do not especially want a wife of alliance, being content with the woman I already have; I most certainly do not want to court two of them!’ He leant back in his chair, swallowing the burn of a sore throat and stuffed nose. The tankard of warm honey and wild garlic that he had sipped was empty. He could do with some more. ‘I was with Eadwine a month or so back, aye, but then so were our brothers, Earls Leofwine and Gyrth.’ Harold indicated the two men sitting together on the opposite side of the table. ‘Do you accuse them of the same as you do me? And what exactly, brother Tostig, do you accuse me of?’

  He had seen the girl, Alditha, during the summer. Did admire her pretty face and enticing, slender body – perhaps more than a man his age, with a wife he loved and another official betrothal, ought, but then there was nothing wrong with looking.

  Displaying good sense, Tostig held his peace, although thoughts of alliance or treachery tumbled in his mind. He had no doubt that Harold had discussed the possibility of a northern rebellion with Eadwine and his turd of a brother. Hah, it stood to reason! Harold was green-sick jealous, envious of his close friendship with the King, of Edward’s indication that he, Tostig, would be put forward as regent or successor, not Harold. How it must stick in an elder brother’s throat that the younger might stand a good chance of wearing a crown! Was it not already obvious that Harold was plotting against Edward? Courting the prospect of alliance with William of Normandy? Now this with Eadwine and Morkere, and openly taking side against his own brother!

  ‘I say we ought to ride for Northampton, confront this rebel mob, hang the leaders and send the rest home after a birch thrashing.’

  Gratefully Harold took a replenished tankard from the servant, savoured its soothing effect as the liquid eased down his throat. What he would really like was a warmed bed and a cold compress over his throbbing forehead. ‘And with what men do you intend to enforce this hanging and thrashing? You’ll not have the use of my housecarls for such foolishness, nor, I doubt, those of our brothers.’ He glanced at Leofwine and Gyrth for confirmation, Leofwine readily shaking his head, Gyrth, perhaps a little more reluctant, but all the same agreeing that nay, their men would not fight. ‘Nor will you, my Lord King, commit men into what could, so easily, be misconstrued as a declaration of war?’ Harold looked at Edward with an eyebrow raised.

  Edward, in his extremity of rage, would have been quite happy to concur with Tostig’s suggestion, so it was as well Harold had spoken. He most certainly did not want – could not afford – a civil war. Reluctant to disagree with his favourite, Edward shook his head, laid a hand over Tostig’s. ‘I would not endanger your safety, my dear friend. A rabble can so easily turn ugly – those brutal deaths in York proved that.’ Edward shuddered. Butchered, they said they had been. Tostig’s loyal men, his supporters and followers – Tostig’s men, King’s men. He twined his fingers in Tostig’s, squeezed them briefly in a gesture of comfort and relief. ‘I just thank God that you were not there.’

  Harold drained his tankard. Said nothing. If Tostig had been in York, had been there all these past months, paid more attention to his earldom, his people’s needs and grievances, his duties, then this whole damn mess might have been averted.

  Edward announced his decision: ‘Harold shall go, discuss the matter. Sort things for us.’

  Tostig scrabbled to his feet, protesting. ‘My Lord King, no, Harold is in league –’

  ‘Now, now, Tostig, my mind is made up. Earl Harold is very capable of smoothing ruffled feathers. He can negotiate a settlement and we can get back to normal.’ Edward stood, indicated that the meeting was ended. ‘Come,’ he said, setting his arm around Tostig’s shoulders and steering him towards the door, ‘my growling belly tells me that it is time for our supper.’ He tossed a look back over his shoulder at Harold. ‘You will leave at first daylight, my Lord Earl? We shall await your return here at Britford.’

  Harold, as had the rest of this small Council, had risen to his feet when the King stood. He bowed, ducking his head so that Edward might not see the expression on his face. The very last thing he wanted to do was leave his bed at dawn and ride to Northampton.

  It was a waste of time anyway, as he had guessed it would be. The Northumbrians were adamant. They refused to take Tostig back and rejected the King’s command to lay down their arms and air their grievances through the royal courts. Offered, instead, their own ultimatum: eject Tostig from the earldom and England, or war would be brought against the King also.

  Almost apoplectic at Harold’s nonchalantly delivered message, Tostig urged Edward to summon out the fyrd immediately.

  And the rebels, in retaliation, advanced to Oxford.

  9

  Oxford By the twenty-seventh day of the month of October Edward had removed his court to Oxford, intending to block the advance of the rebellion with the summoning of the fyrd. He had already his personal guard of 800 housecarls and with them the 300 or so of his Earls Harold, Leofwine, Gyrth and Tostig. But the English fyrd did not come. It was a freeman’s duty to serve an agreed number of days at arms, called out by the overlord to whom he paid rent or tax, summoned by the boom of the war horns. Earls Harold, Leofwine and Gyrth, flanked by lesser nobles, thegns and elders, however, refused to entertain what could, so easily, become the nightmare bloodbath of a civil war. The war horns had remained silent. No one, besides Edward and Tostig, cared to set South against North like cocks in the pit.

  That it had been Earl Harold who first refused to comply with Edward’s demand to call out the armies of the South was not lost in Tostig’s vitriolic condemnation of his brother. Mistakenly convinced that he was sympathetic to Morkere, Tostig accused him of blatant treason before the assembled Council of southern lords.

  ‘You plot with Eadwine and Morkere – why? To secure their armies at your own back when the time comes forcibly to take England’s crown for yourself? Is that what you plan, Harold?’

  There were audible gasps of horror at such a vehement accusation. Edward himself cried out, shock on his thin face. Edith too gave a gasp, covered her mouth with her hand, stared, roundeyed and fearful. ‘Tostig!’ she breathed. ‘Hold your silence, I beg you!�
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  Tostig did not see, hear or care. Harold had been instructed to negotiate with that plague-tainted rabble and what had he achieved for his own brother? Nothing! That’s what, bloody nothing, aside from allowing them to gather more strength. They were a mile from Oxford, 400 short of 3000 men against the King’s pathetic few hundred. A few hundred that would have been multiplied by five or six times had Harold not countermanded Edward’s order to the fyrd. Aye, Harold had done that – Harold. Was it not obvious why?

  ‘What did you say to those peasants from the North?’ he sneered. ‘Well done? Good work? We’ll soon have Tostig gone and the King down on his knees. How long, brother, before you lay claim to the crown?’ Then, as an afterthought he added, ‘Is it for yourself you have encouraged this rebellion, or are you securing a future by working in league with Normandy?’

  Harold’s face had also drained chalk pale from disbelief and a profound rage at his brother’s foolishness. He had been trying to warn them about Normandy these past months – yet arrogant fools like Tostig and their sister, and those complacent like Edward, had refused to listen. He had no wish to become king unless there came no alternative choice – that honour was for Edgar, the lad who carried the true blood of Wessex. He was not insensitive to the prestige a crown would bring, but he loved his family and his freedom. A king, even one as incompetent as Edward or his father Æthelred, had no independence or respite from responsibility. Royal power was an attractive cloak to wear, but it was one that weighted a man’s shoulders; privately he would be prepared to carry that burden if God decreed it must be so, but publicly he had wholeheartedly declared his support for young Edgar – and had made it abundantly clear that Edgar must rule as his own man, that there would be no toleration of either the Queen or Tostig acting as regent. Could Tostig not realise that it was precisely because of his contemptible rages and poor judgement that Harold could never back him for such a role? Christ Jesu, he had made a midden mess of Northumbria . . . to let him loose on England with a man such as Duke William watching like a hawk from across the Channel Sea! Harold eased his clenched fists, struggled to retain composure.