The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘I can see that, my lady, but you are strong and you are brave. Lord knows you must be to face Lady Spiteful in her own lair.’

  Edyth tried to smile but another pain tore through her and it was with the greatest relief that she reached her bower and collapsed on the bed, curling herself in around the pain. She was only vaguely aware of Becca rushing in and helping her into the loose birthing gown she had not even finished sewing. The girl mopped at her brow with a damp cloth but Edyth pushed it away. What damned good was a cloth? She needed some sort of clamp to pull the thing out. She needed a miracle. She needed this to end.

  But it did not. Edyth laboured on, almost delirious in the struggle. The midwife arrived with a young assistant and at some point two of Gwyneth’s women – older wives with more compassion, or perhaps just a stronger sense of self-preservation – came too. Still, though, the babe did not let go its grip on her womb.

  ‘Keep going,’ they all said. ‘You’re doing so well. You’re nearly there.’

  It was all nonsense. Edyth seemed to be nowhere near there. She just wanted to drop down and sob but the endless pains gave her no respite to even do that.

  ‘I can’t do it!’ she cried.

  ‘You can,’ came the determined chorus, then suddenly there was a commotion outside and a rustle of excitement ran through the women, rapidly turning to alarm as the door slammed open.

  ‘Cariad.’

  ‘Griffin!’ Edyth threw herself at him. ‘Your damned child is turning me inside out.’

  ‘You will master it,’ he said, his voice ringing round the bower, sounding somehow so much more convincing than everyone else. Edyth clung to him and the women fluttered nervously.

  ‘Sire,’ one of them dared to say, ‘you should not be in here.’

  ‘Why on earth not? My wife is giving birth to my child. It seems to me that I am the very best person to be in here.’

  The women cowered back and Edyth nearly laughed, save that her body was torn by a new pain, even fiercer than any that had gone before.

  ‘I feel it,’ she cried as a great weight seemed to press between her legs. ‘I feel it coming.’

  At that no one challenged the king further.

  ‘On the bed, my lady,’ the midwife said but Edyth shook her head and gripped at the bedposts.

  ‘Here. I want to do it here.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Here!’ Griffin roared.

  Quickly the women laid sheets beneath Edyth and hovered, knees bent, like boys waiting to catch a pig’s bladder.

  ‘Push,’ the midwife urged and Edyth pushed.

  It hurt like the devil himself was pushing his way out but it was a relief to actually do something with the pain and Edyth fought with it, bearing down and gritting her teeth. Through the mist she heard someone call, ‘the head, I have the head’ and then, on a last great push, she felt the babe slide from her and her whole body grow still. She collapsed against Griffin who held her tight though she could feel him shaking like a ship in a storm.

  ‘You’re afeared,’ she found the breath to tease.

  ‘I admit it. I’d rather fight ten battles than go through that again.’

  Edyth felt tears and laughter blurring in her eyes but everything cleared as the midwife lifted the cleaned baby.

  ‘’Tis a boy, my lady. ’Tis a son, a gift from God.’

  ‘May He be praised.’

  Edyth felt her husband’s chest swell with pride as he took in the clear evidence of his male heir. Tenderly he dipped his big, copper-crazed head to kiss him and though the babe blinked, he did not flinch.

  ‘Ah,’ Griffin said, ‘he is brave. That is good. A prince needs to be brave. Here, cariad.’

  He stepped back a little and, unclasping a gleaming gold band from his upper arm, set it softly on the boy’s tiny head.

  ‘Tush now,’ the midwife clucked, fingers plucking nervously at her cream skirts, ‘he is but a babe, Sire.’

  ‘Nay,’ Griffin admonished, ‘he is my babe and he is Wales’ future king – is he not, Edyth?’

  Edyth nodded. Pride and delight and relief were swirling inside her and she fought to find something worthy of the moment to say but for herself her baby’s shiny crown was as nothing to his little eyes as they stared wonderingly up at her, as blue as his father’s.

  ‘A son,’ she whispered, gathering him into her arms. ‘I have a son.’

  Then she burst into tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Coventry, October 1057

  Edyth could scarcely believe she was back in England. She’d only been away two and a half years but already she felt like a stranger. She’d been sad when the news of her grandfather Earl Leofric’s death had come to Rhuddlan but had seized at the chance to finally return to Edward’s court for the funeral. Somehow, though, it all felt different now.

  Her gowns, though sumptuous, were of Welsh fabric – soft and strong but not quite as fine to the discerning eye as those of the English ladies. Few traders dared travel as far west as Rhuddlan so the high-quality wools of Flanders and Italy or the rich silks of Byzantium rarely made it to Edyth’s seamstresses. On his summer raids Griffin often brought her back beautiful jewels and fine wines but it would not occur to her warrior husband to look for fabrics and why, indeed, should it? Welsh wool was beautiful.

  Even so, Edyth could not help stealing envious glances at the new fashions. Many women were wearing gowns with extravagant triangular side pieces sewn into their skirts to make them swirl elegantly around their legs as they danced and she felt the restriction of her own tighter design like a reproach. Others had gowns cut in some clever way to pull tight at the waist without the need for a girdle, making the wearer’s own slim lines clear to all. Not that such a style would benefit Edyth at the moment, she reminded herself, for she was carrying Griffin’s second child and her belly was swelling enough to rob her of any waist – though not enough to make it clear this bulge was more than just Welsh ale.

  Sucking in her stomach, she ran her hands over the costly chains of gold looped between her jewel-studded shoulder-clasps for reassurance. She was a queen and she must carry herself as such. Even so, she felt as if all her old acquaintances had taken a step sideways, not far enough to be out of sight but definitely enough to make her stumble constantly to find her place amongst them and, disorientated, she looked around for her son. Griffin had named him Ewan – God’s gift – and he had been a gift indeed, more company than she’d thought possible of a child, both in Wales and now here in the swirling English court. She’d left her lively toddler with his proud young Uncle Morcar just a moment ago and now she spotted them surrounded by the young women of Edward’s court.

  ‘Listen to him!’

  ‘Isn’t he sweet.’

  ‘Like he’s singing. He’s an angel!’

  Ewan flashed his admirers his cutest smile.

  His father’s son, Edyth thought ruefully and felt a pang of loss for her husband, for Griffin was not with her. He’d excused himself, suggesting that the man who spent his summers raiding England’s borders might not be welcome at its court and pleading concern for rebellion in the south now that Gwyneth had been returned in dishonour. Edyth had accepted this, secretly believing she might find King Edward’s court easier without her bluff husband at her side, but in truth she missed him. She had forgotten how tired pregnancy made her and now, with her grandfather’s funeral on the morrow, she felt more vulnerable than ever. Craving her son, she rushed over and took him into her arms.

  ‘Mam!’ he cried and his admirers giggled again.

  ‘Is that Welsh?’ one asked, peering at Ewan as if he might have come down from the North Star.

  ‘It is,’ Edyth said haughtily.

  ‘As you are now, Edyth Alfgarsdottir?’

  ‘I am Queen of Wales, yes.’

  That shut them up, for a moment at least. Edyth looked around their faces, vaguely recognising some of the girls she’d once played with at Crownwearings, but str
uggling to recall any names. Twelve-year-old Morcar had ducked off after a pastry tray and she was left here feeling awkward and vulnerable, especially when they so clearly knew her.

  ‘The language sounds so strange,’ another girl said, pointedly smoothing down her full skirts, ‘so ancient. Earl Torr says the Celts are an old, old people.’

  ‘That’s right – long established in this land.’

  ‘That wasn’t how he put it.’

  They all giggled again, delicate English tinkles that set Edyth’s teeth on edge.

  ‘From what I heard,’ she said, ‘Earl Torr was more than happy to spend time with the Welsh when he went on campaign there, especially the Welsh girls.’

  ‘Lucky them. Have you seen his emblem – the sharpened spear? Well, I hear his spear is not just sharp but long!’

  The others sucked in delighted breaths.

  ‘Ooh, Sophie, careful. The Lady Judith is just there.’

  Sophie! Edyth remembered her now – the Lord of Thanet’s daughter. She’d been a quiet little thing when she’d last seen her but the girl had clearly grown out of that. Her friend – possibly Lady Emily of Canterbury, though she too had blossomed from a skinny ploughshare of a girl into a curvaceous young woman – pointed to Torr’s wife, talking earnestly to a bishop nearby, and they all giggled madly again. Would she have been this way if she’d stayed in England, Edyth wondered, with nothing more to worry about than fashions and friendships and husbands? If so, it felt a world away. She looked desperately around for escape and finally caught a glimpse of a gown even less fashionable than hers in a meadow-sweet colour that looked enticingly fresh amongst the cloying riches.

  ‘Svana!’

  ‘Edyth! Lord be praised. It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘And you.’

  Edyth set Ewan down and grasped her friend’s hands, drinking in the sight of her after nearly three years apart.

  ‘You are counting my wrinkles, Edyth – I am grown old in your absence.’

  ‘Nonsense. You look the same as ever and indeed – though your letters have been a godsend to me – you are far lovelier in person than in writing.’

  It was the truth. Svana did perhaps look a little older. Her hazel-gold hair carried tints of silver now and life had sketched itself in tiny lines at her temples, but her grey eyes sparkled as brightly as Edyth remembered and her slim frame was as lithe and graceful as ever. Now she bent to Ewan.

  ‘And this must be the Prince of Wales?’

  Ewan held tight onto Edyth’s leg but smiled at Svana and when she held out her hand he took it as solemnly as a grownup.

  ‘Ewan,’ Edyth said, bending down too, ‘this is the Lady Svana, Mama’s very best friend in the whole of England.’

  ‘Surely not,’ Svana said softly over the boy’s head.

  ‘Surely so,’ Edyth countered, glancing up at the gossiping courtiers all around them. ‘I’m so pleased you’re here, Svana. I was beginning to feel quite . . . adrift.’

  Svana laughed and leaned in.

  ‘Fret not, Edie. Everything these women do is designed to make you feel different, unsure – wrong. They’re experts at it.’

  ‘So what’s the answer?’

  ‘Simple – talk to the men.’ Svana grinned cheekily. ‘Firstly, they don’t judge, especially if you’re as pretty as you are. Secondly, it really, really annoys the women.’

  Now Edyth laughed too.

  ‘I shall try it, though I should like to talk with you.’

  ‘And I you but that’s permitted because I’m not a woman – I’m a witch.’

  ‘What?’

  A server passed by with a tray and Svana, apparently flustered by her own words, rose swiftly and grabbed a honeyed pastry, busying herself breaking it up for a delighted Ewan. Edyth rose too, waiting pointedly, and eventually her friend met her eye again.

  ‘That’s what they say, Edie – that I’ve bewitched Harold.’

  Edyth shook her head.

  ‘What nonsense. I confess, Svana, I once thought you something of a faerie queen, but your charm for Harold, as far as I can see, is all human.’

  ‘Oh no. No, they won’t believe that. They are desperate for any excuse to remove him from me.’ She leaned in. ‘They are talking of him as the next king, Edyth.’

  ‘King? Why?’

  ‘Edward has no heir and his only interest now seems to be in the new abbey he is designing for Westminster. It will please God, I am sure – or, at least, he is sure – but it will not keep back the wolves who prowl beyond the sea. Duke William of Normandy seeks a kingdom and Harald Hardrada has never been one to rest on his own throne. He is married to a princess of Kiev, you know, and looks to make her Empress of the North. The council fears for England’s safety should anything, God preserve us, happen to the king.’

  With a jolt Edyth remembered Torr’s talk of such matters back before she had travelled to Wales. It had seemed foolish back then but Edward was over fifty now and the threat was less easily dismissed.

  ‘But why, Harold?’ she asked.

  ‘Lord knows. He does not encourage it. Indeed, he spent months on the continent last winter seeking out the king’s cousin. He dragged him all the way out of Hungary only to have the wretched man die within days of setting foot in Westminster.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Edyth looked down at Ewan, licking honey from his fingers and glancing hopefully at the still-laden platters on the table. ‘Does he have children?’

  ‘Yes, three, one a boy – Edgar – but he’s a mewling little thing, not like this chap.’ She ruffled Ewan’s red-gold locks. ‘The only one of them fit for rule, if you ask me, is the middle one, Margaret, but she’s a girl so no use to anyone.’

  ‘Svana!’

  ‘You know what I mean. She cannot rule.’

  ‘I don’t see why. Griffin says I could do anything if I set my mind to it.’

  Svana smiled.

  ‘All goes well at Rhuddlan then, Edie? You are content?’

  ‘I am, though it seems,’ she added, noticing two women pointing at her, ‘that I am grown a curiosity.’

  ‘I told you,’ Svana said, ‘talk to the . . .’

  ‘Men,’ they finished together.

  ‘What men?’ a deep voice demanded and the women jumped guiltily apart.

  ‘Harold!’ Delighted, Edyth hugged the Earl of Wessex but his broad back felt stiff against her hands and, embarrassed, she pulled away. ‘I’m so sorry, my lord. I forgot myself.’

  ‘Then I am glad of it.’ He pulled her in again, squeezing her so tightly her feet lifted from the ground. ‘And I am glad to see you well. The way my wife talks anyone would think your father had fed you to a monster.’

  ‘Harold!’ Svana protested indignantly.

  ‘I confess,’ Edyth said quickly, ‘that I thought Griffin might truly be the devil the first time I saw him, but he is not.’

  ‘Devilish enough,’ Harold spat, ‘especially if you live in the Marches. There he slaughters all he comes across.’

  Edyth took a step back at his sudden dark tone.

  ‘My husband is prone to exaggeration,’ Svana said swiftly but Edyth had caught the change of mood and felt dizzied by it.

  She pressed her hand to her belly and the welcome flutter of life inside steadied her.

  ‘You are with child,’ Harold said, shifting subject smoothly. ‘God bless you. And you have a bonny son already.’

  He crouched down to talk to Ewan who went gladly to him, reaching up a podgy hand to play, wide-eyed, with his sand-blond hair.

  ‘He’s not used to such fairness on a man,’ Edyth said as Harold winced at a curious tug.

  ‘You think me fair, Edyth, Queen of Wales?’

  ‘I think your locks fair.’

  ‘Ah! Shame.’

  Svana shook her head.

  ‘Harold is used only to adulation. Every unattached woman here wants him for her husband.’

  ‘He is your husband, Svana.’

  ‘We are but
handfasted.’

  Her voice was light but Edyth heard the pain.

  ‘You are the most tightly joined pair I know,’ she said stoutly.

  ‘Thank you, Edyth,’ said Harold, standing again. ‘At last someone that agrees with me.’

  He turned to summon his bondsman, Avery, with wine and Svana clasped Edyth’s arm urgently.

  ‘Do you think I should spend more time at court, Edyth – with Harold?’

  Edyth blinked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Do you?’

  ‘With Harold, yes, but I hate it at court.’

  ‘Sometimes I hate it in Wales.’ Svana stared at her and Edyth noticed, again, the shadows of lines on her beautiful face. ‘I’m sorry. It’s different. I do not have lands of my own, I—’

  ‘No, Edyth, it is not different. You are right. I will make more effort. I will travel more and keep my husband close lest one of those cats sink their claws into him.’

  ‘Why not marry him?’

  ‘Love prefers to be free. If he cannot stay true without Roman bonds he is no good for me.’

  ‘Oh Svana, the Roman bonds are not to keep Harold, but to bind up the rest of the world.’

  Svana looked close to tears and Edyth had no idea what more to say so she was hugely grateful when Harold turned back with drinks and her friend visibly gathered herself.

  ‘A toast,’ Harold proposed, ‘to the glorious memory of Earl Leofric. May he rest in peace.’

  ‘Peace?’ little Ewan echoed curiously and Edyth hastily passed him another pastry.

  ‘Earl Leofric,’ she said firmly and they all drank.

  Coventry Cathedral was packed. Commissioned just ten years ago by the earl whose tomb would now stand at its centre, it was spacious and modern in design but never intended to house the entire court. The lords and ladies were squeezed against each other like eels in a barrel to mark the passing of the great man. Edyth stood at the front with her family, her fine Welsh crown as heavy on her head as her heart felt in her chest. She was sure everyone was staring at her.

  ‘Nobody likes me any more,’ she whispered to Edwin.

  Her brother leaned down to her. He was as skinny as ever but, now fourteen, he had grown taller than her and his ever-solemn face was shadowed with the first wisps of a beard.