The Chosen Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘I am your king and while there is breath in me I will remain your king.’

  ‘Is that so?’ The words were low, menacing.

  ‘Please,’ Edyth started but no one paid her any attention.

  ‘The boy had done no harm,’ Lewys went on.

  ‘He would have alerted the hamlet,’ Griffin shot back. ‘Someone might have spotted a chance for gain and run to the bastard English who seek to take everything from us.’

  ‘Including our decency?’ Lewys growled.

  ‘How dare you?!’

  Griffin lifted his sword again and Becca screamed and leaped forward. Griffin saw her move just in time but could not curb his weapon. He twisted it so that it was the flat, not the blade, that caught her but still the force of it cracked across her slender shoulders and sent her reeling. In a flash Lewys’s own sword was up.

  ‘No!’ Edyth cried.

  Lewys was still holding Becca with one arm. He glanced at her and Griffin took his chance. His sword lifted again, visibly quivering with rage, but as he moved to strike he cried out in agony and dropped his weapon as if God himself had struck it from his hand.

  ‘Griffin!’

  He turned, slowly, and Edyth saw horror swirling his blue eyes like a grasping undercurrent tugging at the sea. A sword protruded from the soft spot beneath his arm, too deep in to doubt its deadly path. Behind him a soldier stood, hands to his mouth as if in disbelief at his own action, but already his fellows were enclosing him, shielding him. Everyone watched as Griffin put up a hand towards Edyth. She ran forward but he crumpled to the ground before their fingers could meet. Edyth flung herself down and clutched his dear head in her free arm. He looked up at her, drew in a ragged breath, and spoke one final word: ‘cariad’. Then he was gone.

  No one spoke. No one moved. From somewhere, as if miles up on the top of the Eryri, Edyth heard her baby crying and the sound echoed around her heart. Griffin had come so far, fought so hard – for this? She remembered him on the beach the day he had asked her to help him keep his kingdom, so determined and yet so vulnerable underneath. Only she had ever truly seen his fears; everyone else had been offered the fierce warrior and the riotous courtier – the face of kingship, not the heart.

  All his life Griffin had truly striven to rule Wales as he felt she should be ruled and all his life Wales had resisted him. Now she had hounded him to an ignoble death in her own heartlands and for a moment Edyth hated the country she had shared with her brave husband for nigh on eight years. Yet, he had known it would come. ‘I could be king for another twenty years, Edyth,’ he had told her, ‘or for just a few more hours. It is best, I find, to make the most of all this wonderful life offers.’

  Well, he had done that and she had been lucky to do it with him, if for all too short a time. Drawing her sorrow around herself like a cloak, Edyth buried her face in her husband’s fading copper curls and wept. Still no one else dared do anything until, from across the fire, someone said: ‘God bless the king.’ It was a soft, clear voice and it drew Edyth’s head upwards. ‘God bless the king,’ Becca said again. She was on her feet, her hand clutching tight at her injured arm but her head high. Slowly others joined her: ‘God bless the king.’

  Moved, Edyth sat back and, clutching her fatherless babe in one arm, she pressed the other hand to her heart as if she might physically hold it together. How could she hate Wales when it had given her so much? How could she hate these people when they had stood side by side with her and Griffin through all their troubles – and stood still? No one dared look at each other. No one spoke of blame and no one ever would. Griffin’s world had been shrinking for too long and this night it had sunk right in on itself. He had died by the sword and in this particular battle it was not their place to question whose. Edyth joined the chant, a whisper at first and then a proud, fierce cry. They would be heard now. They would be heard by the people of Beddgelert. They would be heard by Harold’s scouts. They would be heard by Harold himself but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered. The first King of all Wales lay dead in the dirt, halfway up his beloved mountain – halfway up to heaven. Tomorrow the men would deliver him to Harold as a prize of war but tonight, beneath the stars, in a space out of time, they would sing him to his rest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Rhuddlan, August 1063

  Harold knew he should feel triumphant. Certainly he had arranged everything to look that way. He had ordered Avery to have Griffin’s throne brought out of his great hall and set on a hastily erected dais in the centre of the royal compound, still marked out by the charred fencing his own men had burned to the ground at the start of this portentous year for Wales. He was sat upon it in his full regalia as Earl of Wessex awaiting the humble entrance of his captives so he definitely should feel triumphant. Why, then, was his stomach churning as if he had drunk a whole damned barrel of Welsh ale?

  Edyth’s throne was at his side and he swore he could see the shadow of her fingers in the soft wood of the beautifully carved armrests. When they’d brought it out he’d seen one of her honey-blonde hairs caught on an edge, drifting on the crisp air like a spirit, but it was there no more and now Earl Torr lounged on the throne, one booted foot over an armrest, his slim leg dangling nonchalantly as if he were in a poor man’s tavern not a royal court.

  ‘Sit up!’ Harold urged him under his breath. ‘Show some respect.’

  Torr’s amber eyes narrowed.

  ‘For whom? The treacherous runaways who slew their own king in their blessed mountains?’

  ‘Torr, enough! We should be gracious in victory.’

  ‘I do not see why.’

  Harold turned away from his brother. Fighting with him had been a trial and winning with him was worse. Torr had taken Rhuddlan first, flying his glittering ‘sharpened spear’ emblem high from its single tower before letting his troops loose on its meagre supplies. Harold had arrived to find soldiers asleep all around the compound and Torr himself sprawled out across the king’s bed with three helpless young women. His instant imposition of discipline had been met with begrudging shame from the men and gloating petulance from their leader.

  ‘Don’t be so dull, Harold,’ Torr had moaned. ‘What’s the point fighting if you can’t enjoy the spoils?’

  He’d pouted even more when Harold had sent his three ‘spoils’ away.

  ‘They enjoyed it,’ he’d insisted.

  ‘You mean you paid them.’

  ‘So? I’ve been in this godforsaken country for weeks without female company. A little pleasure is surely the least I deserve?’

  ‘It’s always pleasure with you, isn’t it?’ Harold had snapped. ‘What if the Welsh had come?’

  Torr had just grinned lasciviously.

  ‘Oh, they did, Harry – well, three of them at least!’

  Harold had forced himself to walk away and had avoided Torr as much as possible in the long days since. Garth had ridden through Wales with him but had returned to England to report the victory to King Edward the moment it had been secured and he missed his easy company. He had not even been able to seek refuge with God, as Griffin’s chapel had burned with the rest of the compound. He itched to return home but now, at last, the hostages were to be brought before them and they could make peace and turn east.

  He lifted his head. Trumpets were sounding on the breeze – the surrender party approached. He slapped Torr’s leg down and rose, pushing himself out of Griffin’s throne. He’d ranged all the men in full armour to greet the prisoners but it was a poor sight that met their eyes. Griffin’s soldiers shuffled into the bleak compound, heads low, bearing a platter of gold. A gruesome object rolled upon it and Harold knew before it drew close enough to see that it must be Griffin’s head – proof that he was dead. It would be his duty to accept it and he braced his spine in readiness even as his eyes sought the queen. He’d expected to see her at their head, high on a horse with her crown proudly on her head, but no such figure led the group of prisoners. His heart skipped. Reports had s
aid she was frail. Had she not made it? The men dropped to their knees before him. Harold stepped to the edge of the dais to take the platter, but all the time his eyes searched and then he saw her.

  She was in the lead cart with the other women. She had clearly been prostrate but now she roused herself and sat up tall, her back as rigid as his own. Her two boys sat tight to her side, little eyes flashing horrified defiance, and in her arms was a tiny swaddled bundle. Harold noticed all this as his hands met the platter and he almost missed his grip. His fingers tightened just in time and he raised Griffin’s head aloft to a great roar from his troops, but his own mind was racing. She must have given birth in the wild, like the poorest commoner. She must be very weak. She might take childbed fever. She might die before he transported her over Ofa’s Dyke and what, then, would Svana say? His great victory would count for naught in her eyes.

  There was an oak table just behind his throne, set with wine, and he pushed the jug aside to put Griffin’s head down. It rolled precariously and only the matted, bloody mass of rusty hair held it from tumbling to the ground at the soldiers’ feet. Torr laughed.

  ‘See,’ he cried out, ‘what happens to the enemies of King Edward!’

  The soldiers roared and for once Harold was grateful to his careless brother for supplying the ceremony that stuck in his own throat. He held up his hands.

  ‘We accept this token of Wales’s surrender and we will honour King Griffin with burial here, at his palace of Rhuddlan. Then we will seek terms with those who submit to our rule. But first, all prisoners must bow and swear loyalty to King Edward of England as their ultimate overlord.’

  ‘King Edward, King Edward!’ the English troops shouted out and the sound seemed to crack against the new walls of Rhuddlan’s great hall.

  Edyth stood. She passed the baby to a pale-faced woman behind her and held out a hand to be helped from the cart. Avery rushed forward to hand her down with all honour, then lifted her two little princes to the ground. Holding them each by the hand, Edyth traced her way through the slim ranks of men until she was before Harold. She walked awkwardly, as if it hurt her greatly, and he longed to spare her the pain, but he knew it had to be done and admired her beyond words for doing it. She dropped to her knees and bowed her head but her voice was firm and rich and carried on the sea breeze all around the hushed compound.

  ‘As Queen of Wales, I and my sons, the princes, submit to you, Earl Harold, as honourable representative of King Edward. May God bless and keep him and those who serve under him.’

  Harold stepped forward and offered his hand. Edyth took it and he grasped her fingers tight, trying in that one touch to convey all he wanted to say: that he would see her honoured, respected, safe; that he would see her home as he had promised Svana he would do. Her fingers, at least, were cool in his and her face, when she turned it up to him, was pale but strong.

  ‘We accept your submission, my lady, and take you and your sons into our safe keeping.’

  ‘And my daughter.’

  ‘And your daughter.’ Harold ordered the tiny creature brought forward, then took her into his own arms and looked down into fierce blue eyes. ‘What have you named her?’

  ‘Nesta. It means pure, for she was born into strife but brings none of her own.’

  Harold bowed his head.

  ‘Nesta. She will be safe with us as, together, we work to bring peace.’

  ‘Peace,’ he heard Edyth mutter, a sigh almost, and he tightened his fingers around the babe as cheers rang out all around.

  Then Torr stepped forward, his wolf’s eyes flashing.

  ‘You can submit to me any time, Edyth Alfgarsdottir.’

  Harold’s hand twitched to strike his brother but Edyth simply turned her face to Torr and quietly, almost genteelly, spat at his feet and walked away.

  ‘The little vixen, I’ll have her!’

  ‘You will not,’ Harold said to his furious brother. ‘She is Queen of Wales yet and an earl’s daughter besides and she is not to be treated like your poor strumpets.’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Harold – she’s a prisoner. She’s ours to do with as we wish.’

  ‘And I wish to deliver her, whole, to her brother Edwin, Earl of Mercia, our ally – our much-needed ally.’

  Torr just snorted.

  ‘You know what I think, Harold? I think you want her for yourself.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘You’ve always been possessive of her, ever since that time in the woods. Are you jealous, Harold? She was watching me that day, you know, and she liked what she saw too. I wager she’d give herself to me willingly. I wager she’d love it.’

  Harold’s hand shot out, too fast for Torr to avoid it. He grabbed the rich fabric of his brother’s tunic and twisted it tight, yanking him towards him.

  ‘Your spear is ever too sharp, brother. She is fresh out of childbed and that a bed of twigs and fear. If you so much as touch her, I swear on Christ’s blood, I’ll kill you.’

  Torr just raised one eyebrow. Harold reluctantly released his hold and his brother stepped back, brushing himself down with a snide smile.

  ‘Definitely jealous,’ he said and sauntered away to his place at the table.

  Harold slammed his fist hard into the wall. Blood oozed from his knuckles but he welcomed it. Sometimes he thought he really would kill Torr. He had to conclude this peace and fast, for it would do the troops no good to see their leaders divided. Taking a deep breath, he turned and approached the table. He’d make this sharp and fast.

  It wasn’t hard. The northern Welshmen caved to his every demand as their southern counterparts had done before them, dissolving into defensive local groups like wild animals seeking the safety of their own packs. Having left Glamorgan under Prince Caradog’s command, and Deheubarth to the arrogant but safely inward-looking Prince Huw, Harold divided the north between a cowed Prince Bleddyn and his younger brother, Rhys. He also took the obligatory chance to enrich himself and Torr with the great parcels of borderland won by Griffin’s relentless skirmishing, leaving only one town – Billingsley – in its former hands. Perhaps one day Edyth would offer it as a dowry to the little girl born amongst all this horror. He hoped he’d be around to see that but the years ahead were shrouded in mist and he feared parting it to even try and do so.

  The night they were due to leave he went to visit Edyth. Despite Torr’s taunting he had insisted on her being given the privacy of the bower, telling all that King Edward had expressly asked that she be returned to his court in safety. She had accepted gratefully and retired with her children and her pregnant maid, who also appeared to be injured though none would tell him how. He had ensured she was well guarded and fed but now, after three days in the half-built palace, the troops were growing restless and costly and they had to leave for England. He knocked at the door and the maid admitted him, eyes downcast.

  ‘My mistress is feeding her daughter,’ she told him in broken English, ‘but I will fetch her.’

  ‘No. No, I can wait. Let the babe have its supper.’

  The girl almost smiled. Her arm was in a sling but she tended him attentively. He accepted wine and tried not to look at the drawn curtain of the big bed, behind which he could just make out Edyth’s silhouette as she nursed.

  ‘Will you come to England with us?’ he asked the maid to cover the sound of the suckling child.

  ‘Me?’ She turned big brown eyes on him, too surprised to avoid his gaze. ‘No. I speak not good English. My lady has taught me a little, but . . .’

  ‘She speaks to you in Welsh?’

  ‘Of course. This is Wales.’

  Harold thought of Edyth, delivered here by her father aged fourteen, and tried to imagine how it must have been for her.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘She has had letters from England, from the Lady Svana. They have been her . . .’ She fought to recall the word. ‘Her lifeline.’

  Harold smiled.

  ‘The Lady Svana is my wife.’
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br />   ‘I know, my lord. My lady queen has spoken often of it.’

  Harold was curious to know more but the girl had looked shyly away, her hand curved protectively over her belly.

  ‘You are with child?’

  ‘I am. My husband is one of the king’s . . . I mean . . .’

  ‘Your husband is a guard,’ Harold suggested gently.

  ‘Yes. A Welsh guard and we belong here. In Wales.’

  ‘And the Lady Edyth? Where does the Lady Edyth belong?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Lady Edyth belongs wherever she chooses.’

  ‘Lady Edyth,’ said the lady herself, emerging, ‘does not like to “belong” at all. Good evening, my lord. Does this mean we must depart?’

  ‘If you are well enough?’

  Edyth looked straight at him.

  ‘I am.’ She glanced at her maid. ‘I will leave good friends, for which I am sorry, but it must be so and at least I will have my children.’

  ‘Of course. Their uncle, the Earl of Mercia, will welcome them, I’m sure.’

  ‘You are too kind, my lord.’

  She was so formal with him and he was surprised at how much it hurt.

  ‘I have brought you something for the journey home.’

  ‘You have?’

  Still, her voice was dull, distant. Harold cleared this throat.

  ‘I thought you might like your own beautiful mare to carry you.’

  ‘Môrgwynt?’ Her head shot up and Harold was delighted to see a spark of life in her eyes at last; it had been worth saving the animal from the fire. ‘Oh, Harold, thank you!’

  She took a step forward as if she would hug him, but recollected herself at the last moment and held back. Even so, Harold felt he had melted just a little of her ice and was glad of it. This speck of warmth, at last, was like a trace of the old Edyth, a seed that could grow and maybe even blossom again. The maid had described Svana as Edyth’s lifeline and now he vowed to himself to make sure he carried this poor, deposed Welsh queen safely home to her care.