Fitz Osbern suppressed a belch. ‘For the sake of God, man, you have been paid to deliver a message to Duke William. Do so.’ Fitz Osbern tossed the scroll at the man, who made no attempt to catch it.
‘Nay, ’tis not my place to disagree, but I were commissioned to fetch this to Normandy. That, I have done. No one said anything about taking it direct to the man himself.’
Exasperated, Will heaved himself from his stool and fumbled for the scroll which lay among the floor rushes. ‘I assume this great reluctance of yours is connected with the knowing of what is contained within this scroll?’
‘Oui.’
‘Which is…?’
The messenger scratched his nose. Ought he tell? ‘Which is that the King of England is dead, and that Edgar Ætheling is crowned and anointed in his place.’
Fitz Osbern’s grip tightened rigid around the parchment. Slowly, very slowly, he straightened. ‘Repeat that.’
The messenger did so.
Fitz Osbern walked back to his stool, feeling as if he were ploughing through knee-deep mud. He could imagine the words written on the scroll burning through. Someone would have to read them aloud to Duke William. His indigestion paled into insignificance as a different kind of sickness rose into his throat. He nodded at the messenger. ‘You may go.’
Relieved, the man fled.
Duke William sat very still. Only the slow, systematic rubbing of his thumb brushing across the ruby in his ducal ring, and the tight clench of his jaw, indicated his fury. ‘Read it again,’ he snapped.
Fitz Osbern reluctantly complied. Duke William’s lips parted slightly, his nostrils flared. The thumb stopped moving.
The chamber was not crowded, but all within exchanged furtive glances of apprehension. Both servant and knight alike knew to beware of their duke when a rage threatened.
Duchess Mathilda, seated beside her husband, flicked a glance from the pale-faced Will Fitz Osbern to her husband and moved to rest her hand on William’s arm. With irritation he jerked away. The abrupt movement broke the stillness. He lurched to his feet. He was a tall man – in anger, his stature seemingly heightened. His words, however, were low: ‘And did Harold, Earl of Wessex, not speak on my behalf, as he swore to so do?
‘Non, my lord.’ Fitz Osbern allowed the scroll to roll up on itself, ‘he did not.’
‘He swore to speak for me, to convince the English of my claim.’
Fitz Osbern made no answer. There was none to make.
William clenched his fists, the nails digging into the palms. ‘He swore. He took an oath before me, before God.’ The words were becoming slurred, spoken through that rigid jaw.
Mathilda rose and put her hand over her husband’s fist, was surprised to find that he was shaking. She too could not believe that what was written in that letter was the truth. Harold had seemed such a pleasant man, so benign – so honourable. She felt a blush tingle her face as she remembered him from his visit to Normandy; his laugh, those vivacious, enticing, blue eyes… Ashamed at a flurried erotic memory, she stifled the knot that was tangling her stomach and peered up at her husband. ‘My lord, you are a greater man than ever this boy, Edgar, will be.’
Had William heard? His anger was swamping him, penetrating his senses, thundering in his brain. He had been betrayed before. Other men had sworn allegiance and reneged upon their oath. And other men had paid the price of their duplicity.
‘He swore to speak my claim! He swore! Is this how England repays my kindness?’ Resentment spewed from William’s mouth. ‘I welcomed him as a guest. I treated him as if he were one of my allies, offered him my confidence and friendship!’ He lunged forward, scattering goblets, jugs and food bowls from a table, tipped the table itself. Struck out at a servant, clawed at a wall hanging and ripped it down. A few of the women screamed, men drew back, several dogs began to bark. ‘He swore to make me King of England!’
Knowing no one else would attempt to calm him Mathilda intervened, her hands grasping his flailing arms. She was so small against him, her head barely reached his chest. She gripped tighter, shaking him. There were more than a few in that hall who secretly admired her bravery. ‘It is done, husband. The thing is finished. Forget England. Forget it.’
William stared down at her, his expression a vice of hatred. ‘Forget England?’ he said ominously. ‘On the day I wed you, I promised you would not think of me as an illiterate barbarian, I promised I would prove my worth and strength, that I would give you a crown.’
Interrupting him, Mathilda declared, ‘There is no need to prove anything, I have all I wish for. A husband who is loyal to me, who has given me handsome sons and beautiful daughters.’
Her words did not penetrate his mind.
‘I vowed that I would make you my queen. And a queen, madam, you will be.’ William pulled away from her, swung towards Fitz Osbern. ‘So, this English whoreson, Harold, wishes to challenge my intention, does he? He has knelt before a boy and shouted ‘God Save the King’, has he? Well, we shall see what strength a spot-faced, beardless boy and an oath-breaking liar can muster against Normandy. I want England, and I shall have it. I shall have it!’
Mathilda went back to her chair, taking the letter from Fitz Osbern as she passed, offering him a smile of grateful thanks. Dare she tell her husband that she had no desire to be a queen, no care for England with its damp mists and drizzling rain? She sighed, read the letter for herself. This boy, Edgar, had every right to be crowned as a king. The proposal he offered seemed generous, and most suitable. She looked towards her young daughters standing subdued and silent to one side of the hall. ‘Would this not,’ she said tentatively, ‘be a good match for our eldest daughter, our beautiful Agatha?’
William stared at Mathilda with cold disdain, the corner of his top lip curling in rage. ‘You would have me,’ he hissed, ‘be made to look the fool?’ He took a step towards her, his fist raised. To her credit, she did not flinch. ‘You would have me,’ the snarl increased, ‘be of a lesser rank than a girl?’
Mathilda bowed her head, murmured, ‘I apologise, I am a mere woman, what do I know of these political things?’ She looked up, smiled. ‘Forgive me, you will make a superb king.’
As her husband turned away she retained the smile, but thought, ‘Unless someone manages to do away with you first.’
Author’s Note
Edward commended his wife, Edith, to her brother, Earl Harold’s care – which was assumed that he also meant England. Harold did swear an oath to Duke William when he was in Normandy a few years earlier, (although we do not know why he was there,) but swearing false oath was less dishonourable, to the English, than endangering the lives of loyal followers.
Duke William claimed that Edward had promised him the throne. Was that likely? Edward was exiled to Normandy from 1016 to 1042 – a long time. He would have known the Duke as boy and man. His mother, Queen Emma, wife to King Æthelred, Edward’s father, had abandoned Edward’s care to her Norman relatives when she married the conquering Dane, King Cnut, in order to retain her position and crown. Perhaps Edward felt some obligation of gratitude to Normandy?
However, this could only have happened in the early 1050s when the Godwin family were briefly out of favour and exiled. They clawed their way back because Edward was too friendly with the Normans, and the remaining English earls were not happy. They preferred the powerful Godwins, over ruthless Normans.
As for Mathilda’s secret thoughts; far-fetched? Maybe not, several years later she backed her eldest son in rebellion against William.
Helen Hollick
www.helenhollick.net
Discussion suggestions:
If King Edward had officially, in recorded document, named Duke William as his heir, how would that have affected the events of 1066?
Did it matter to the ordinary people of 1066 who became king?
FEBRUARY
; 1066
Sometime after his coronation King Harold toured the north of England, looking to gain the loyalty of his subjects under Edwin, Earl of Mercia and Morcar, Earl of Northumbria, both young men. Edwin had inherited Mercia when his father, Lord Alfgar, died in 1062 and Morcar had been ‘invited’ to rule Northumbria by rebels who had cast out Tostig, brother of King Harold, in October 1065.
The North had traditionally been the least loyal part of the English kingdom. Far from the main seats of power in Winchester, Westminster and even Gloucester, they were a proud and determined people who could be a law unto themselves. Securing an alliance with the Northern earls was vital for Harold if he was to keep the country united against possible invaders. But how to do that?
Edwin and Morcar had a sister: Edyth of Mercia was still young but already the widow of King Gruffydd of Wales, to whom she had been married by her father in 1055. When Gruffydd, whose favourite pastime was harrying the English marches, had finally been driven to death by Harold and the English army in 1063, she had been brought back to England and in 1066, was the perfect vehicle, willing or otherwise, to unite North and South.
Records are not specific about when the wedding took place. It was certainly before either Hardrada or William landed and it was vital to Harold, for the men of the north held one of the main keys to keeping England safe in 1066.
A MATTER OF TRUST
ANNIE WHITEHEAD
Wearing the crown is one thing, but if Harold were to rule with any security and authority, he needed the support of the northern earls. At some point between his coronation and April 16th, he travelled north to try to secure that support. It has often been said of Earl Morcar that he ‘owed’ his earldom to Harold, who had endorsed him after Tostig had been ousted.
The Earldom of Mercia had once been a separate kingdom, and nationalist fervour had often caused problems for the kings of Wessex. Mercia had strong links with the neighbouring Welsh, and Edwin’s family had been close allies of Gruffudd of Gwynedd, whose death was engineered by Harold. Edwin and Morcar’s grandfather had been a political rival of Harold’s father, and the Godwin family had caused their father, Aelfgar, to be removed first from an earldom in East Anglia and then, briefly, from Mercia. These two families had ‘history.’
Late February – York
The message, when it arrived, had been simple. Edward dead, Harold is king. Come north. Riding to answer his brother’s call, Edwin had his grandmother’s words still ringing in his ears. ‘Our time has come, now. It is time to make Mercia great again.’
His gloves offered protection from the chilly air, a remnant of the winter that was slow to depart, but now he took them off, feeling the reins pressing into his palms while he stared at the leather embossing on his pommel. He had thought for a long time before setting out and was not convinced, even now, that he had done the right thing, not least because of the stench from the River Ouse assaulting his nostrils.
Opportunistic stallholders had set up along the roadside, breads and fresh spring cheeses laid out on rickety tables, but a baker with forearms as thick as Edwin’s calves shook his head in disappointment when they rode past. ‘It’s the Mercians. Lord Edwin will have provisioned for them well enough. We’ll have no sale today.’
They rode through the southern gateway of the erstwhile Viking kingdom of York, where the base of the stone watchtower was strewn with flowers, and had to slow their pace to avoid the press of people, brought out by the late winter sunshine and the presence of the king. Edwin swallowed against his Mercian revulsion to all things Norse; the odd, cellared buildings, the women wearing Norse-style silk caps instead of veils, the men with plaited and tied hair that resembled horse tails. The Godwins. Harold Godwinson was standing outside the Earl’s hall, with members of the northern nobility, among them Oswulf of Bamburgh, and Edwin’s brother, Morcar, the present Earl of Northumbria. Edwin dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting horse-thegn.
His younger brother came running to him, grinning wide enough to split his face. The afternoon sun shone on his hair. It had already left its mark on his face, where a band of fresh red covered his nose and the upper part of his cheeks. Despite the chill, he was in his undershirt. There was a slash in the sleeve; even today, Morcar had been in the yard, practising his sword skills. Oswulf followed him, and nodded at Edwin, before grasping his hand and drawing him in to pat his back. ‘Welcome, Friend.’
Edwin had not seen Morcar for some months, but Morcar wasted no time on such greetings. ‘Edwin, you must agree to Harold’s kingship. Tostig was earl, and we threw him out. And when Tostig tried to take Northumbria back, Harold did nothing to help him. Think on it, he chose me as earl, over his own brother.’
Edwin sniffed. It wasn’t much of a compliment. It was no ill reflection on Morcar, but Harold had simply chosen his only available option, as a condemned man might choose life instead of the gallows.
As if hearing his thoughts, Harold Godwinson moved away from the steps of Morcar’s great hall. Moustaches neatly trimmed, carmine tunic blowing in the breeze, he descended with his unmistakeable swagger towards the newly arrived nobles, but Edwin could detect the doubt: the tilt of the head, the slump of his shoulders when the nobles he walked past refused to bow, instead folding their arms across their chests.
Harold stepped toward the Mercians, giving a slight wave of the hand held at hip level, an involuntary betrayal of his thoughts; that the opinions of those on the steps mattered less than those of the men he was approaching.
Behind Edwin, his friend Waltheof, lord of Southeast Mercia, slipped from his saddle and removed his gloves. He said, ‘He only got where he is because his sister was married to the old king.’
Edwin turned to smile at his young companion. Son of the old Northumbrian Earl Siward, Waltheof had been too young to succeed when his father died and thus Tostig had been appointed. Edwin never felt the wind on his back, for Waltheof was always there, loyal and dependable, and no friend to the Godwins. Edwin acknowledged his friend’s remark with a pat on the arm. ‘Wise words, as always.’
Waltheof returned the gesture. ‘Do what you must.’
Oswulf said, ‘Harold has a good sword arm. When Morcar made me lord of Bamburgh, he talked of how Harold dealt with the Welsh rebellion. In our fathers’ day, he sailed with the Dublin men and I hear that he fought well on horseback with Duke William of Normandy two years ago.’ As Godwinson approached, he added, ‘But he will not hear it from me.’
Harold extended his arms as if he would embrace Edwin, but when Edwin kept his arms folded, he turned the gesture into one of query. ‘What say you, Earl Edwin? You have taken a blessed age to get here. There is much we need to talk about.’
Morcar placed his weight on one leg and then the other, as if his bladder were full. ‘Many men have tried and failed to get my brother to speak at length about anything, my lord.’ His words were directed at Harold, but his gaze was fixed on his elder brother, the same beseeching expression that he’d used often, always deferring to Edwin after their father had died, too young.
Harold said, ‘I know you don’t trust me, but didn’t I prove myself when I helped Morcar?’
Edwin looked at the older man. Let him say it. Let him acknowledge it. He gripped his sword hilt, pressing his flesh against the jewelled pyramid at the top, cool, unyielding. He would have to hang up his sword when they went inside, but for now it kept him stable, helped him plant his feet, stand steady, unwavering.
Harold spoke again, quickly, as if needing to fill the silence. ‘I know your father had no love for me. Indeed, your grandfather had no love for my father. But England can be different now.’ He touched a hand upon Edwin’s forearm. ‘Please, Lord Edwin, walk with me…’
April – London
‘How could you?’ A week had passed since Easter Sunday. Ealdgyth looked as if she had been crying since Good Friday.
Often Edwi
n had seen her with streaks on her cheeks, and with eyes rubbed red against salty tears, but this time the chin was down, the eyes wide in reproach. His sister need not speak; he knew.
But she continued. ‘Dragging me to London on the pretence of seeing you bow down formally to Harold, and all along you had sold me to him as a bride. How could you, Brother? Not enough that he has made me a widow…’
‘I could not help what was done to Gruffudd of Gwynedd. I was too young. Father thought…’
‘You are not too young now! What of my children, the life I had carved for myself in Wales? I was young, too, when father sold me to Gruffudd. But I made the most of it. At least he was kind to me, and a friend to our family.’
She inhaled a ragged breath and paused, and he knew that she too could hear the scrape-click that announced their Grandmother’s imminent appearance.
Godiva came in to the hall from her private guest chamber beyond the great painted screen, leaning heavily on her carved stick, but keeping the jewel-encrusted tip visible, preserving the pretence that it was no crutch, merely a fashion accessory. The heavy gold and emerald cross, worn every day that Edwin could ever remember, swung across her chest with every step, and he took her elbow, ignoring her attempts to shake away his assistance as he led her to a chair. When she sat down, her head went forward, pushed these days by the hump at the back of her neck, but even though her eyes were shrunken by the years, they still shone speedwell blue and her brow, with every grey hair tucked severely under her veil, surrendered to barely a wrinkle.
Godiva glanced at Ealdgyth, cleared her throat, and fixed her gaze upon Edwin. ‘Twice.’ She nodded, and held up two fingers. ‘Two times the Godwins forced my son into exile. Your own father; hounded out of his lands. With Gruffudd’s help, he got his earldom back, but is it any wonder he died before his time?’ Her voice cracked on the last word, turning it into two syllables. ‘But that wasn’t enough for Harold, was it? He bribed the Welsh to kill Gruffudd.’ She sniffed, and then drew her lips together, hastily correcting herself as if she knew it would encourage wrinkles around her mouth. ‘The Welsh were our protection against the grasping Godwins. I lived to bury my son, I’ve watched my granddaughter widowed, her children left fatherless.’ She glanced at Ealdgyth, reaching out as if to pat her knee. ‘And now you,’ she glared at Edwin, ‘now you make peace with Godwin’s whelp? This is not what I prayed for when you went north; for you to give him your sister as soon as he asked.’
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