Godwine and Edmund had told her they must leave immediately. Stoical but broken-hearted, Gytha had watched the sea from the monastery cliff-side, leaning on her eagle-headed stick as the boys and their Danish oarsmen collected the women’s valuables from where they were stowed safely in caves. Thea’s brothers and their oarsmen had worked hard all day long, sweat running in ribbons down their bared backs, shifting chest after chest out to the anchored ships. They must catch the evening tide and sail away into exile in Flanders before the Normans changed their minds about allowing them safe passage out and, instead, attacked their ships and seized their treasure. Now, as well as the one sturdy oak chest on their skiff, other coffers containing valuable items were already safely stowed aboard The Wave-Prancer, the second of two great ships that would carry the band of noble women and their children and maids to Flanders.
As for Countess Gytha, once the task had been completed, she had left off her watching from the monastery’s north window, attempted to eat a good dinner and at last she, too, had made ready for her departure. Embracing the abbot who had cared for them since winter, the countess had smiled sadly as she presented him with a valuable relic, a fragile snip of the virgin’s veil. This holy object was contained inside a small crystal and gold reliquary box which she had smuggled from Exeter after the siege, when she, her daughter Hilda, Thea and their women and children had been banished to Flatholm to await exile.
Thea knew that leaving England would bring Grandmother Gytha immense pain. Losing Magnus left a hollow in her own heart, already brimming with sadness for the death of her father at Senlac, the viciously thorough conquest of their land by the Normans, and her mother Elditha’s decision to enter a monastery. Her thoughts raced as if they were shooting stars moving like quicksilver through the night sky above. My sister Gunnhild is trapped with Aunt Edith at Wilton Abbey. My little brother is a Norman hostage hidden away in one of their dark castles, she thought sadly to herself, and now that the Normans have killed Magnus, Godwine and Edmund are all the brothers I have left. So with those thoughts, Thea looked away from the island of Flatholm glad to leave days there that had been endlessly marked by prayer and the work of a small monastery.
Though Flatholm had been their home for six months, since Exeter had fallen to the enemy, she had tried hard to make the best of it. She had gardened, applied herself to her embroidery and told stories to the small group of children belonging to the noblewomen accompanying them into exile. She had even discovered other tales, stories older than those she already knew, from a strange bearded monk who came to visit them from Denmark carrying word to the women of her brothers’ summer campaign. He had brought them hope, if only for a short time.
Thea glanced up at the thin, fragile moon. Despite all that had happened since the Normans stole England, anticipation gripped her. By the time that moon grew fat again they would be settled in their new home. She moved her lips in prayer to her name day saint, St Theodosia. ‘Gracious lady, grant us a warm hall, fine furniture and new clothing and take a care for my brother Magnus.’ Surely her saint would answer her prayer.
Yet, Thea did not confess to St Theodosia her deepest and most secret wish. She wanted revenge on William the Bastard. She wanted revenge not only on him but on his whole House for his destruction of her father, the kidnap of her brother Ulf by King William, her mother’s seclusion and the murder of her brother, Magnus. If St Theodosia knew what lay in her heart, she knew it already. Thea wanted vengeance and until she had it, her life would never be complete again. One day, the Bastard, William of Normandy, false king of England, would die an ignoble death, unloved by his children and preferably in great pain because she, Thea, daughter of the great King Harold, wanted him to suffer for what he had done to her family. And, she added this to her thought – one day she would marry a warrior prince who hated the Normans as much as she did and who would help her brothers recover their kingdom.
She started. Voices were falling towards them, dropping from the direction of the cliff below the monastery, coming closer. She twisted around to see the rest of their women following a monk who was swinging a lantern. Their ladies, who were wrapped in their warmest woollen mantles, came in a snaking line down the cliff path to the beach. All of them, even the five children, were carrying small bundles. When the group reached the shingle the women gathered up cloaks and skirts and, bunching the thick escaping material into their hands, they began wading out to climb into the fleet of skiffs. Edmund and Padar, their warrior poet, took an arm here, a hand there. They lifted the older women, swinging in turn each of a tiny band of confused children from one to the other over the lapping water. Finally, they deposited the women and their offspring into the assorted fishing crafts that would ferry them to the big sailed ships which were to carry them over the Narrow Sea.
The women’s exile had been arranged months before by Aunt Edith, England’s dowager queen, wife to Edward. Because of her influence, King William had promised them this safe passage. Of course, Thea mused, he would promise anything that would rid himself of the Godwin threat and hold onto Aunt Edith’s good will. If he retained Edith’s good will he might get England’s sheriffs and officials on his side, those who had the running of the shires in the days of King Edward. Thea could not understand why her aunt was so devoted to Uncle Edward. She shuddered. Never could she wed with such a frost-bitten one, never, not even to please the family.
A final splash threw salty spray into her eyes. She blinked it away, looked around and saw that at last the skiffs were full. Padar climbed over two rowing benches and sat opposite them, squeezed in on the end of a third bench, wrapped in his old seal skin cloak. He grunted a greeting, and received a glimmer of a smile from Gytha. Edmund came down the rowing boat, placed an arm about Padar’s shoulders. ‘Look after them as we caste off, my friend.’ Once, it seemed long ago but it was only a year since, Padar had protected her mother and now he promised that he would protect them.
Grandmother Gytha seized Thea’s hand and spoke for the first time since Prime. ‘Soon we shall be in Baldwin’s court. Just think how he will welcome us with honour. His family was always friendly to us Godwins.’
‘Will he be friendly, Countess?’ Padar asked, taking his watchful eyes from the shoreline. Raising a bushy eyebrow and leaning forward, lowering his voice, he said, ‘Will he really be a friend to you? I’d leave your coffers under guard when we reach St Omer. You’ll not breathe a word about it, my lady Countess, either, if you are wise. Given half a chance, Baldwin will be like a crow ready to scourge the wheat field. He seeks the best opportunity. He straddles loyalties.’
Gytha narrowed her eyes, nodded and glanced at Edmund who had taken up oars. ‘The boys will need it if they are to get back our kingdom.’ She turned to Thea. ‘You will need help, too, if you are to marry well. Sixteen, my girl, and high time we found you a match.’
Thea thought to herself that her brothers would use most of any coin and treasures they possessed to buy ships and weapons. But she would need a dowry if one day she were to marry well. She watched the waves roll about their craft as the oars beat on water and the dragon ships drew closer. How would Godwine get them off the rowing boats and up into those enormous ships? The ships’ walls were as high as a giant’s reach.
A loud greeting echoed over the sea. Glancing high above her perch Thea saw Godwine waiting at the nearer ship’s side. He shouted down to them. ‘Grandmother first. Edmund, keep the boat still as you can. I am coming down to you. I shall carry her up the ladder myself.’ Before Gytha could protest, Godwine was on the rope ladder and climbing down to them. He jumped into the skiff, and lifted Gytha as if she were a bundle of fine light wool. ‘Hold tight, Grandmother. That’s it, arms around my neck,’ he urged.
Gytha laughed as Godwin reached out and grasped the hanging thick knotted rope with one hand, his other arm hugging the Countess, and began shimmying up it with Gytha clinging to him, holding on as if her life depended on it. It did.
Th
ea glanced down at the dark waters below.
‘You next, sister,’ Edmund said. ‘Can you climb unaided?’
She nodded. As she made ready to grasp the rope ladder, Gytha, apparently unaffected by her journey upwards into the dragon ship, stood safely with Godwine supporting her on a rowing bench inside and called down, ‘Girl, bring my stick with you. I’ll need it to steady myself and smash a few sea serpents.’
Padar reached up and handed Thea the eagle-headed stick. Her ascent would be even more dangerous now there was this in one of her hands. Thea climbed, holding on precariously with her left hand, her arm aching. She held the stick up to Godwin, who was leaning over the side waiting to help her over the top. He took it and turned to his grandmother with a ‘Here it is. Grandmother, let Gunulf help you down on the bench before you fall and break something.’
Gytha grasped her stick and accepted the oarsman’s help. Once down she waved the stick about her head so that all Thea could see of Grandmother Gytha was a carved eagle head poking above the side of the ship, and her grandmother’s strong voice yelling, ‘I hope the Bastard king sleeps uneasy in his bed tonight. I curse him, by the Nons’ spells; I curse him by Thor’s hammer and by Freya’s bones I curse him. I pray that he suffers Hell’s fires for his theft of our kingdom.’ The eagle-headed stick was shaking up at the stars as if to emphasise her words.
Godwin’s answering call echoed around the waters, ‘He will pay for Magnus’s death, for my uncles’ deaths, for my father’s death. We will harry England’s shores until he wishes he had never heard of our kingdom.’ He lowered his voice and called down to Thea, whose stiff fingers could hardly grasp the rope as she listened patiently to her grandmother’s diatribe, wanting it over so that Godwin would get her over the side. At last he called down, ‘Now, Thea, come further, hand over hand.’
Thea climbed the last of it steadily, crushing her terror of dropping back down, until to her relief, Godwin grasped her and swung her over so that she fell past the rowing benches and onto the deck. One by one, the other boats drew up to the big ship. Led by Hilda the ladies courageously climbed into the ships. Finally the children shimmied up and they were all on board. The Sea-Dragon’s sails were unfurled and the seamen seated in the ship’s body began to row. The Wave-Prancer followed. This ship, Edmund explained, carried the rest of their surviving Danish warriors and housecoerls, all well-armed and alert. Thea glanced over admiringly at their coned helmets and at their great jewelled arm bracelets that glinted through the starlight.
She watched, thrilled, as Godwine raced across the great benches that ran along the ship’s length and shouted to The Wave-Prancer. There was an answering call as the warriors began to manoeuvre the ship into position beside The Sea-Dragon. When they drew closer Godwin climbed up onto the wall of The Sea-Dragon. With a yell he leapt over the narrow channel of sea onto the supply ship and was gone. He would command their protection from the second ship which carried the greater number of his men at arms and sailors who were also warriors.
The Wave-Prancer moved away again, oars moving in rhythm. It took up the lead position now. The Sea-Dragon followed and soon they were out from the headland and the island was left far behind.
Padar joined the women where they made themselves more comfortable by leaning against Gytha’s coffer. Squatting down, he opened his satchel, drew out a large flask and pulled a wax stopper from the skin. He produced a silver cup and with his eyes twinkling he offered the first draft to Gytha. After the Countess drank, Thea, and finally the other women raised the flask to their mouths. It held a concoction of something that tasted of honey and bitter herbs, clashing flavours. Thea did not mind. The liquid coursed through her, for a heartbeat allowing her thoughts to drift away to far distant lands, kingdoms that marked the edge of the world.
‘A distillation of barley and herbs,’ Padar said as he took the flask back and knocked off the dregs, stoppered it and returned it to his satchel.
‘Just what we need,’ Gytha said as the ship ploughed its way out of the channel, southwards. ‘Now, little man, lull us into sleep with the melodies of my homeland.’ It was as if Gytha was remembering places far to the north that had long been hidden in her soul, the land of the Danes, the country of her youth.
As Padar pulled his harp from his big leather scrip, the children squeezed up against their mothers. They were all packed as closely as a line of drying cod, twenty of them in all, women and children, jammed into the stern of The Sea-Dragon. Thea looked past them and behind for the necessary. She took note that it must be that covered pail that leaned against the ship’s wall just at the furthest end of the ship where the stern curved upwards into a dragon’s tail. They would need to be careful if they had to crawl around the chests and over to it. If the sea remained calm then no one would be sick. Aunt Hilda was famous for her weak stomach.
The Countess had huddled down amongst the fur covers. As Padar played his harp her eyelids closed. In sleep Gytha’s aged face relaxed and the lines of long years of care settled. For a moment Thea glimpsed the fine-bred northern beauty her grandmother had once possessed. The water’s lapping, the oars plash, the murmuring of the night breeze and the strains of Padar’s music contrived to shift Thea’s thoughts to dwarf kingdoms under the mountains. She imagined caves along which rivers twisted through pillars of ice. Gradually her own eyelids closed as she, too, was lulled into sleep by the skald’s melodies and the gentle rhythm of the dragon ship as it ploughed through the waters. She pulled her sheepskin closer and drifted into the territory of uneasy dreams.
Carol McGrath
Carol’s passion has always been reading and writing historical fiction. She lives in Oxfordshire with her husband and family. She taught History in an Oxfordshire comprehensive until she took an MA in Creative Writing at The Seamus Heaney Centre, Queens University Belfast. This was quickly followed by an MPhil in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway, University of London. Her debut novel, The Handfasted Wife, first in a trilogy about the royal women of 1066, was shortlisted for the RoNAS, 2014 in the historical category. The Swan-Daughter is the second in the trilogy. It is also a stand-alone novel. Carol can often be discovered in Oxford’s famous Bodleian Library where she undertakes meticulous research for her novels. Find Carol on her website: www.carolcmcgrath.co.uk
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The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 36
