New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  Eadric had accompanied the King to Westminster, the man’s joy at victory self-evident, his story of the fighting listened to in awe by all within the King’s Hall of Westminster. A tale, surely, to be told at the hearth side over and again on many a winter’s night. Harold himself had swept his wife into an immediate embrace as he had dismounted, kissed her full on the mouth and led her, arm linked through arm, into the palace, among the crowding throng, all anxious to hear the true version of what had happened along the southern coast and upon the sea. To her surprise, he had been attentive to her throughout the evening, had sat by her side, occasionally taking her hand or sliding his arm around her waist. His look had been unmistakable. That of wanting. She had told herself that his consideration was for the child swelling within her belly – this would be her sixth month. He had never concealed his delight in children, and for her to produce an heir so early in this marriage must be pleasing to himself and his court. It was, most certainly, to her brothers.

  Come the night, their first bedding together since the bloom of early summer, they had lain together, his lovemaking careful, mindful of her pregnancy. A blush slipped on to her face as she remembered the quiver-feel of his touch upon her. Gruffydd would never have absented himself from a celebration to lie with his wife. He would have staggered to bed, drunk and incapable.

  She half listened to the voices of the men: Harold, his two brothers, his nephew Hakon and the commanders of his housecarls, gathered around the high table. She must cease thinking of that damned man. Gruffydd was dead. Harold was her lord now. Harold, who cared for her, who had shown her how to enjoy the passion shared by a man and a woman. Gruffydd was gone – and, thank God, William too was gone, though she would not rest easy until his bones were also being picked by the worms. If Harold had not returned, if she had lost him so soon after she had found this wonderful feeling that was called love . . .

  The fyrd, that mighty force of men who protected England, had been disbanded yesterday, sent home to gather what they could of a poor harvest. The King’s brothers and his commanders would also be leaving soon. Everything was returning to normality, as if there had not been a summer-long run of fear, as if nothing from before Edward had died had altered, save that Harold was now king and she was queen. Queen of England, the Lady.

  Alditha could barely comprehend the implications. Naturally shy, she found it startling to have all eyes upon her, men bowing, women curtseying, to have her every word noted and obeyed. Were she to order a peasant to jump, head first, into the midden pit, would he do her bidding? She was Queen. Emma had been admired and feared for her knowledge and authority, Edith rapidly becoming cherished for her long devotion to Edward. What was there for herself? She did not ask much; all she wanted was to be appreciated and loved.

  She looked towards Harold. He sat at the table, listening to the flow of talk, not entering the conversation himself. He had slept ill, despite his weariness, his body twitching and restless. Several times he had spoken out in his sleep, most of his words unintelligible. A few clear and unmistakable.

  Once, when she had stretched out her hand to soothe him, he had been hot and fevered, his face, even in sleep, haggard, with cheeks hollowed and eyes sunken. His jaw hung slack and she had noticed, as he had prepared for bed, that the fingers of his left hand were stiff and clumsy. His illness of long past, he had said, plaguing him whenever he felt excessive tiredness aching in his bones.

  The need to be ever alert had played heavy on his mind, the weighty responsibility of ensuring England’s coast, to south, east and north, had been adequately guarded. It was one thing to be a king, as had Edward, with nothing more than the level of taxation, the making of laws and passing of judgements to contemplate, another matter entirely to be a war lord. Edward had little more to worry on, once his decision of where and when to hunt had been made. Perhaps, Alditha thought, that was unfair, but Harold had not met his first few months of kingship with the same ease as had Edward. Facing imminent invasion from two quarters had taken its toll of his strength, both mental and physical. Discreetly watching him and the men sitting with him, Alditha privately defied any of them to match the courage that her husband had displayed these last months.

  He ought to be elated, though, that William had been sent running, that Tostig, too, would probably not be seen again until next spring. But was it the strain alone that brought this deep, boneaching weariness to his expression and body? Not his age, certainly, for he was only into his four and fortieth year, a young man by comparison with his father and Edward. Alditha watched him as he stared vacantly out of the windows to the north-east.

  From where he sat he would be able to see little except the blue sky overhead, but was it the sky he was seeing, or was his mind elsewhere, at Waltham Abbey and the manor house that stood on the high land above the valley? Those words, during the night? They had been Edyth’s name, called with longing.

  There was much to be dealt with at court, things that had had to be set aside: an accumulation of petitions and charters, a bishop to be appointed, letters of greeting to be acknowledged, sent by kings and princes of foreign lands. The clerks and administrators had attended to what they could, but to some things only the King could put his signature and seal. There were others, however, that even for a king were difficult to deal with: two women in particular. One he loved with all his soul; the other he was growing, daily, more fond of.

  Harold had been pleased to see Alditha waiting there to greet him, yesterday, in the courtyard. How loving had been her smile of welcome, her delight at having him home. She was pretty and sweet-natured, was undemanding and so innocent. He regretted the marriage, not because of her, but because of his own knot-tied feelings. How could he hurt her, bring her sorrow? But in God’s good name, how could he stop loving his Edyth? He sat at the table, the voices of his companions rising and falling in an indistinct sshh of sound, like the swell of the sea heard when a shell was put against the ear. He was not listening to a single word. All morning had he been busy – but at least the duties of government had kept his mind from wandering to this other thing. Was it because he was tired and dispirited that this heavy cloak of blackness was clamped so tightly down on his shoulders?

  He had tried, yesterday, to offer Alditha the respect that she deserved. And he had been pleased to see her, had enjoyed their lovemaking – she had learnt well and quickly during those brief weeks when they had been first together. That Welsh prince had been a fool, had missed the chance of having a good, loving and loyal woman bound close to his side. Was he, too, then, behaving the fool?

  He stared out of the window at the scudding clouds. His head ached; his arm felt stiff. A flock of starlings wheeled into view, swirling and screeching. He wanted to offer her his love, his attention. Was eager for this child to be born – but wanted it to be girl born, did not want another son, for it should be Goddwin to come after him, or Magnus or Edmund or Ulf. It should be Edyth sitting over there by the window . . . he groaned inwardly, a sound in his head, his heart. He would not let it reach his throat, would not, could not let Alditha become aware of the aching that throbbed inside for the need to see, to touch, to be with his Edyth.

  *

  Two hours before dawn, Alditha woke, startled and disorientated. She had been dreaming of war. Of dragon ships and bright-bladed axes. She turned to Harold, expecting to curl up beside the firm security of his body, but found that he was hot with fever. Trembling for fear that he was mortally ill, she struck a flint and lit the bedside lamp, set her palm to his damp forehead. He was drowsy, but awake, his fevered eyes glazed in the dim light.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ she said, leaving the bed to rinse a linen towel in the hand basin of water, running back to lay it over his hot, sweat-damp skin. ‘I must send for your physician!’

  He caught her hand. ‘No! I beg you, word must not reach the ears of others that I am ill. I know not how many spies there are at court. Enough, I would guess, to pounce as quick as a huntin
g cat on a cornered mouse.’

  ‘But you are ill! I cannot let you suffer like this. I must fetch someone, must do something!’

  Attempting to sit, but realising he had only the strength of a new-born child, Harold managed a lop-sided smile, intending to comfort her anxiety. ‘Leave me to rest. ’Tis only tiredness. Edyth knew that sleep was the best for me.’

  Biting back an un-Christian word, Alditha wiped at frustrated tears that were threatening. Edyth? Damn, bloody Edyth! She would have noticed Harold’s illness before this, would not have allowed him to stay up so late talking with his brothers’ friends, would have brewed him herbs and tinctures. Oh, all the gods curse this wretched situation! Why in hell’s name had she met Harold that day beside the Severn river, when she was still but a girl? Why had her heart, from then, always lurched with a thrill of excitement whenever someone had mentioned his name? And then he had come into Wales and liberated her from that bastard tyrant she had been forced to call husband and lord, had taken her into England, where so often, after, she had seen him, watched him. A girl’s fancy she had thought. But it had proven more than that. When he had come to York as king, had taken her in marriage? She had not realised that such happiness existed.

  She again wrung cold water into the linen, laid it across his forehead. What in Thor’s fury was she to do? Edyth would know. Alditha squeezed her eyes tight shut, took several deep, calming breaths. Aye, Edyth would know, but Edyth was not here and was no longer his common wife.

  Quickly, before she changed her mind, she said, ‘I shall summon a litter and you shall be taken to Waltham. Edyth Swannhæls will know how to care for you. We shall say that you are journeying to your abbey to give thanks to God.’

  Harold stared at her, trying to read her thoughts. Had she really said that? Did she think so much of him that she was willing to send him to Edyth? It was going to be hard, the future, but he had to outface the difficulties. He could not, must not, allow himself to hurt this lass.

  ‘I promised I would not see her again, now that I am wed to you.’ He attempted a laugh, the sound slurred by his stiffening jaw. ‘Despite the propaganda Normandy has attempted to spread about me, I am no oath breaker.’

  Putting a fingertip to his lips to silence him, Alditha answered him forthrightly. ‘I am your queen and wife, but Edyth remains your love. I have ever known that as the daughter of Ælfgar I would only be used as a means of securing an alliance. It was why I was married to Gruffydd. Why I am married to you. I at least know you are fond of me, and you offer me kindness and respect. Which is more than he ever did.’ She took a shuddering breath, ploughed on. ‘I cannot, and do not, expect more from you. All I ask is that you do me no public dishonour, that whenever you go to Edyth, it will be with discretion.’

  With an effort – he was so damned tired – Harold patted the bed covers, gesturing for her to sit. He eased his arm around her, brought her body against his own. ‘That asking I will honour. I cannot deny that I shall always love Edyth, but I am growing to love you.’ He brushed his fingertips against her cheek. ‘Let me sleep. Don’t wake me for a week and I shall be fine.’ His smile was lopsided, his eyes drooping. At that moment, the weariness was so intense that he hardly cared if he never woke.

  He closed his eyes. Ah, by the God of mercy, this situation with these two women was not what he had wanted. The old king, Cnut, had had it the better, for he had ruled over two kingdoms separated by the entire North Sea, so could easily separate his first commontaken wife from the second legal one. One had been settled across the sea, the other, Emma, in England. A wise and fortunate man, Cnut.

  What if he were to attempt something similar? Eadwine and Morkere would welcome a tangible reminder that they were connected by blood and kinship to the crown – would most assuredly welcome a child born of their sister and the King within either of their earldoms. What if Alditha were to reside at York, for instance, rule the North in his name? He would be free to visit Edyth whenever he was in the South – autumn and winter, say – and reside at York for spring and summer. That way, too, he would have more control over the uncertainties of the North – and would reinforce his intention that Tostig was not, under any circumstances, going to have it given back. It was an idea worth pursuing – but after he had slept. He would think on it. Later.

  12

  Waltham Abbey Edyth Swannhæls sat within the September shadows of her husband’s abbey at Waltham. She was alone. Here at Waltham you could hear the silence of heaven if you discounted the noise of voices, rumbling carts and the braying and lowing of ass or ox filtering in from beyond the abbey wall. Earthly sounds, balancing this holy place.

  She gazed at the altar cloth, the fine silver psalter and candlesticks, the golden crucifix; then across to the carved, walrus-ivory reliquary caskets. All Harold’s generous donations. He had, by their giving, been assured of a place by God’s side, the Abbot had told him. Edyth smiled at the memory of Harold’s answer, that if eternal salvation was so easily bought, then heaven must be filled by arrogant and pompous aristocrats and rich merchantmen. Many of whom he despised intensely.

  The Church was so happy to receive expensive gifts. What, she wondered, had happened to the principle of poverty and humility? It was most certainly not a requisite for those who resided in Rome. Surely it could not be right that a wealthy man could do wrong but still be blessed, while a man of humble means, but with a clear conscience, had no chance of seeing heaven? Rome. She regretted thinking of Rome. The Pope, Alexander, was saying that a man ought only to have one, Christian-taken wife and that a husband must remain faithful to that one woman alone. She tilted her head, staring up at the vaulted beams spanning the high roof. The ideals of Rome were all very well, but England had always gone her own way – Rome was too far distant in mileage and awareness to control how things were done in England.

  Rome. Duke William had sent his eloquent liegeman Lanfranc to Rome to plead the case for his domination of England. She counted the Norman exaggerations on her fingers. One, pleading holy crusade to mask ambitious greed; two, declaring that her Harold had broken a sworn oath; and three, that Stigand of Canterbury, who had crowned Harold, was guilty of simony, having received his archbishop’s pallium from the hands of a now disgraced Pope, making the coronation invalid. All inaccurate. The oath Harold had over and again declared not binding, because it had been exacted from him by intimidation. Stigand had been blessed by a pope who, although later replaced, had at the time been considered as holy as this present wealth collector, Alexander, who had not thought it behoved him to discredit or remove Stigand before now

  – and besides, it had been Ealdred who had crowned Harold, not Stigand. Politics of convenience. Half-truths and manipulations.

  Harold ought to send a representative to Rome to rebut the false charges made by Normandy. Not that Alexander would listen. Not unless the messenger was accompanied by a chest of gold, double in weight to the one Lanfranc had, no doubt, taken with him. Nor would she have a chance to suggest it to the King.

  The King. Her feelings for Harold were so confused. Sad that they would no longer share their lives together. Fearful that she would endure old age alone. Envious of Alditha. Resentful. Proud, so very, fiercely, proud that he had been acclaimed as the most throneworthy of all men in England. Incongruously, she found it interesting that there could be so many emotions all tumbling at once within her head.

  The door at the western transept opened, creaking on its hinges. Footsteps: a man’s. She turned to see who had entered. Her son, Goddwin, was walking down the central aisle. He was so much like his father. Even down to the slight roll in his gait. His expression was serious as he genuflected to the altar, then sat beside her.

  ‘A messenger from Westminster has come to the manor. My brothers sent word to find you.’

  Edyth’s mouth ran suddenly dry, her body froze. What was wrong? Oh, God’s good grace, what had happened? ‘What, what is it?’ she stammered.

  Goddwin did not a
nswer at once. He stared, as his mother had, at the altar . . . ‘My father’s brother, Tostig, and the Hardrada from Norway have together entered the Humber; were, when urgent word was sent south from Earl Eadwine, running with the tide up the Ouse river.’

  Tostig. Determined to take back Northumbria.

  ‘So,’ she breathed, her initial panic that something else had happened, something terrible, fading. Yet once the reaction had eased she realised the implications. This news was, perhaps, worse than Harold falling ill or having an accident. ‘It is war, then,’ she said. ‘Your father will be going north to meet him.’ She crossed herself, a prayer for his safety darting through her mind.

  Were she a man she would be running for her horse, making ready to go with him. She looked at her son, at the way he sat beside her, so quiet, his hands resting in his lap, head erect, staring in front of him.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I . . .’ He released his breath in a rush of uncertainty. ‘I have decided that I shall be riding with him.’ He spoke quickly, stopping his mother saying anything, objecting, attempting to make him change his mind. ‘I have been a fool these past years, nurturing childish passions of envy and jealousy. There is no room for such stupidity within a family.’ He turned his head to regard Edyth, who had made no attempt to speak. ‘Tostig has shown me that. I will not allow my father to go to war against his own kindred without the support of his son.’

  She slid her hand over his, squeezed it, once. ‘You will be taking Edmund with you?’ How could she say that so calmly, she wondered?

  Goddwin nodded. His eldest brother had been insistent upon it. ‘And Magnus,’ he admitted. ‘We shall all three go north.’ At Edyth’s stifled gasp he added, ‘Magnus is but fifteen. He will not fight, but I cannot stop him from riding with us.’

  Tightening her grip on his hand, Edyth fought down the rise of nausea that was cloying her throat and the scream that was there with it. No, that he could not, no more than could she.