‘He didn’t ask. I suggested it.’
Ealdgyth made a sound like a wounded animal and ran from the room.
‘What’s that?’ Godiva cupped her ear. ‘Speak up?’
Edwin shook his head, declining to repeat it, and lifted his palms as if supplication might soften her resolve. ‘She is the widow of one rebel; do you want her to be sister to another? Do not forget, when the northern earls rose against Tostig last year, Harold supported Morcar.’
In response, she harrumphed, falling back on the privilege of the elderly, making argument with disparaging noises. ‘Ha! What were they thinking, giving Northumbria to a southerner in the first place?’
His silence seemed to convince her that he had no more argument for her. She grimaced as if trying to swallow curdled milk. ‘Tostig is a disloyal son. His brother Svein abducted a nun. Harold widowed your sister. You willingly deal with such weasels?’
‘Harold will not harm our sister.’ The Godwin treated his hand-fasted woman, she of the swan neck, well enough. But Morcar was a swordsman, a fighter, not a deep thinker. ‘Morcar says he owes Harold a debt.’ He bowed low, and turned on his heel, saying, ‘Let him believe it. For now.’
‘Who? Let who believe it?’
He let the words hang in the stale room as he went in search of fresh air.
The roof space of the minster was filled with cloying incense smoke which seemed to dull the sound of the singing. Harold the king wore a floor-length tunic, with gold fabric at the edge of the neckline. His belt shone with inlaid garnets and rings sparkled on three fingers of each hand. Ealdgyth was wearing a blue shot-silk dress, its sleeves bordered with red. In contrast to Harold’s close-fitting cuffs, her fingers barely showed beneath her wide sleeves. She was wearing a simple veil. They both wore soft leather slippers, but her dress was so long that only the toes of hers were visible. Despite already having been a bride, and having borne children, she looked small, vulnerable. There was no doubt that she was fertile, and would have more babies, but every time Edwin had seen her over recent years, she had had her children alongside her. Now, she was alone. Edwin swallowed hard.
Beside him, their grandmother was wearing a head cloth, wrapped many times. A dress of pale yellow sapped her elderly skin of all colour. Morcar was in a green tunic, his face washed and scrubbed so that his cheeks gleamed red. He looked like the rich earl that he was, but he sat slumped. Was the perceived debt pressing on his shoulders? The thought made Edwin sit up straight. Godiva’s face was pinched, her mouth puckered in sour wrinkles, until she spotted him looking at her. She returned his sideward glance with a glare, and hissed, ‘You should have told him.’
What could he have done? He thought again about the previous year’s rebellion. He didn’t need his grandmother to point out what he already knew: that Harold simply backed down in the face of Edwin’s combined Mercian and Welsh army. Morcar didn’t realise that he owed his earldom not to Harold, but to his elder brother. How could he humiliate him with the truth? He fixed his gaze on the Godwin. Harold reached up and smoothed his moustaches. Edwin thought of the cats sneaking out of the dairy, that preened in the sunshine of the yard and wiped the illicit milk from their whiskers.
With the days getting longer and lighter, the main meal was served later in the evening. The oil burned brightly in the wall-cressets and the heat from the hearth-fire was welcome; despite the longer days, the nights were still cool and fine wedding clothes were impractical for keeping out the chills of evening. The tables were laden with bread made from the finest sifted wheat. Spit-roasted lamb and kid meat was sliced and brought from the cooking fires, and servants poured the traditional bride-ale and the finest wine into gold cups. Carved wooden pillars supported the great oak roof, and the walls were hung floor to ceiling with embroidered panels worked with gold and scarlet thread. The noise of revelry filled the huge space and made conversation possible only with immediate neighbours.
Ealdgyth barely drank. Instead, she picked at the skin on the side of her thumbnail, a habit Edwin remembered from her childhood, when anguish or upset sent her to a quiet corner and saw her worrying away at her fingers, sometimes until they bled.
Morcar, sitting near her on the head table, applauded the glee-men who, having finished their dancing, bowed to make way for the scop. He filled his own cup instead of waiting for the servants to pour and shouted answers to the scop’s riddles. ‘I can think of other things made stiff by churning…’ But the hand that poured the wine was tremulous; the earl who’d sworn allegiance to Harold was at odds with the man from Mercia with a family whose name he was desperate not to shame, and who made a study of the wood patterns on the table whenever his grandmother’s flinty scowl flew in his direction.
Godiva, alternately wincing at his bawdy answers to the riddles, and glaring at Harold who sat with his coronet still upon his head, waved away all drink as if the West Saxon wine were poisoned. ‘Back in the days when such things mattered, London was part of Mercia, you know,’ she said to anyone who was close enough to have to listen. ‘My husband was a great man and I, well, did you know about the time that I…’
Edwin sat forward and placed his hand over hers. ‘No, you didn’t. It is a tale that grows with the telling, but the truth is you simply rode without your jewels on, and wearing a plain shift. Come, it is time you were abed.’
She said, ‘What need have I for sleep, when you have stuck a knife through my Mercian heart,’ but did not resist when he pushed back his chair and lifted her gently to her feet, even though she carried on muttering as they picked their way through the crowded benches, dodging any flailing arms that accompanied raucous story-telling. ‘We were rich but pious. Your grandfather was well-loved, not like those barbarous Godwins…’
Edwin motioned to Morcar with a raise of the eyebrows and a sideward glance, and Morcar came round to her other side. Talking across her, they masked as well as they could her insults against their host.
Outside, the contrast between the noisy hall and the peaceful courtyard was more marked than usual. There was no sound of vomiting, or bladders being voided. None of the usual conversation, conducted in the yard between speakers who’d escaped from within in the hope of being heard. Folk who’d come from the wedding and those who were merely going about their business, were all standing still, and silent. Edwin followed their gaze upward to the stars and crossed himself. Godiva clutched her crucifix and whispered, ‘The saints preserve us.’
Edwin shouted the order to his horse-thegn that he was ready to leave. He shifted in his saddle and saw Morcar walking towards him, leading his stallion by the rein.
‘You’ve made your mind up, then? You’re not going to wait and wait, like you did when King Edward died?’
Edwin shook his head. There was nothing to consider. ‘Tostig is becoming a bane. He must think that thing,’ he jerked his head upwards, ‘is lighting his way. This has naught to do with kingship, or loyalty. The bastard is on our lands, and he needs to be shoved off them.’
Morcar also looked up, to where the fiery-tailed star still shone, like a beacon sent from God Himself, even a week after the wedding. ‘We ride to Lincolnshire, then?’
Tostig Godwinson was making a nuisance of himself and they had a duty to protect the people on their land. Edwin nodded. ‘To Lincolnshire.’
Morcar jumped up and slapped Edwin on the back. ‘That thing up there is a good omen. Our sister is wed to the king, and God likes the idea. Now we will tell Tostig the good news, in a way that he might finally understand.’
Edwin sighed. There was one thing to consider, of course. The need to keep his enthusiastic brother from getting himself skewered on a Godwin spear. Tostig and Harold evidently did not agree, but blood was always thicker than water.
September – Fulford, outside York
This time, he could not respond to the message. Belly round now with the child. Please bring Gr
andmother to me. The harvest had been gathered less than a month ago and in three days folk would be celebrating the ‘even night’, the feast of Mabon, when day and night were equal in length, and beer and wine would be drunk in huge amounts in thanksgiving of the safe bringing in of the earth’s bounties. His sister had been wed five months; by his reckoning he would be an uncle again come the new year. But Godiva could not be fetched to Ealdgyth, and once again, Edwin’s heart tugged against the walls of his chest, as if pulling to be away from where his body had dragged it.
Tostig, defeated four months ago in Lincolnshire, had not learned his lesson but had marched, instead, on York. Edwin turned to look out across his own massed ranks. They stood between the enemy and the city, outside the gates of Fulford, shield wall ready, the ancient tribal banners slapping as the wind buffeted them. The reassuring wubba-wubba of the flapping flags reminded him that all the levies had answered his call, that he had enough northern fyrdsmen to carry the day. Behind them, inside the walls, the rumbling of the supply train cartwheels competed with the clanging of shields, weapons and shirts of mail still being unloaded. Pray God they would not need them.
He’d taken one last look at the sky before putting on his helmet. Pray also that he would not be staring up, unseeing, at that cloudless blue where carrion crows were already circling, at the day’s end. They occupied the higher ground, giving them an additional advantage, even though the foetid aroma rising from the marshes made his stomach threaten its own rebellion. Tostig was not just a nuisance this time. This time he had the army of Harald of Norway standing alongside him. Reportedly, three hundred ships had sailed up the river until the invaders disembarked at Ricall ten miles to the south, but what he saw here belied that figure and Edwin’s inclination was not to wait for the report to be proven. But was their advantageous position enough?
It was a Viking host, like the ones his forefathers had faced. Some had plaited their beards, but it was their equipment that marked them as foreign. Their shields were round, like those of the lower ranks in Edwin’s army. He tapped his kite-shaped shield onto the ground; sturdy, protective. While the sun’s reflection glinted off their axes, he carried his father’s sword, as always, and his fingers curled round the hilt, embracing an old friend. Morcar, the younger son, had had his own sword forged and designed it with a disc-shaped pommel. He’d practised every day; now was a chance to test it in anger. Edwin sent up one final prayer, that he would be able to keep his brother safe during that first test.
Despite the turning of the season, sweat trickled down the nose plate of his helmet and pooled on his top lip. And then he saw Tostig. He knew him from the Godwin swagger, the manner of walking which all the sons had, legs apart, causing a sideward gait. He wore scarlet leg bindings over bright blue breeches. The Godwin was gathering his housecarls to him, positioning his personal guard in close formation. He was wearing a Norse-style helmet, with circles of metal around the eyes. It befitted his foreign origins.
You have stuck a knife though my heart.
How could you, Brother?
You’re not going to wait and wait, are you?
The tugging in Edwin’s chest was replaced with the relaxation of tension having snapped.
With the knowledge that Oswulf and Waltheof would follow, he gave the signal and charged toward the enemy. His men were either side of him but not in a formation that could be described as a shield wall. They slammed into the front ranks of Tostig’s forces, who’d not had time to form the tight wall that would have protected them. Slashing with his sword, Edwin brought his blade down upon the necks of those who stood in his way, cleaving bodies from shoulder to belly. The roaring behind him told him that the English had followed him and he pushed on, until he caught sight of Tostig again. Slamming those who impeded him with a shove of his shield, he focused on the flash of blue with the crisscross of scarlet binding that identified his target. He tripped, but maintained his balance, and looking down and slightly back, he saw that it was not a rock but a severed foot which had caused him to stumble. His throat complained, rupturing from the screaming, but he yelled his death cry again and again as he hurtled towards the Godwin. Tostig turned, his mouth opened, and then a housecarl stood in front of him, brandishing his axe. Edwin’s vision was tinged now with the scarlet, even when he looked up. He blinked hard and fast, and bundled into the housecarl, deflecting the axe blow with his shield, swiping sideways with his sword and bringing it across the man’s waist, all but severing torso from legs. Tostig stood transfixed. In a moment he would rally, but Edwin didn’t wait. Lunging forward, he slashed at Tostig’s legs, and as the Godwin went down, the Mercian blade cut across his neck. Head and helmet separated, and both thudded to the ground.
Panting, throat on fire, Edwin stood as the English fyrdsmen thundered past him. He saw Morcar, running towards the Norwegian contingent. In the melee, nothing could be discerned, but moments later the raven banner of Harald Hardrada disappeared from view. Edwin nodded his satisfaction; Morcar had killed the king of Norway.
As more of the invaders arrived, the English pushed them back towards the swampy ground, and the battle cries were replaced with the shrieks of men drowning in water too shallow to swim, too deep to allow breath. In the distance, troops arriving upon the battleground turned and fled. The morning sun had not reached its zenith and yet, the day was over.
Edwin stared at Tostig’s body. The leg-bindings were now dark blood-red, wet from the marshy ground. How quickly brightness could fade. Now. Now was the time. Edwin exhaled, long and hard, as if he had been holding his breath since King Edward’s death.
He turned to the touch on his shoulder. Morcar was standing behind him, hair sweated to his head, a gash on his cheek, but otherwise, whole. ‘A message came. I could not tell you earlier. You were…’ he looked down at the headless corpse, ‘busy.’
Edwin’s throat was still raw. To save his voice, he raised an eyebrow in enquiry.
‘Duke William has landed an army in the south.’
The people of Fulford raised a cheer as the broken raven banner was dragged through the gate.
Morcar raised his voice. ‘At least we have saved Harold a ride north.’
Would Harold have faced his brother on the battlefield? When it came to it, how thick was the Godwin blood? Edwin nodded. ‘He will be fresh for battle with William.’
‘Shall we go south?’
‘No.’ He had no more wish than the next man to fight two battles in quick succession. ‘It’s not our fight.’
Morcar frowned and wiped sweat from his brow. ‘How can you say that? Harold fights for his crown, and for England. Is that not what we fought for here?’ He circled his sword arm shoulder, massaging it at the joint. ‘I owe him.’
Edwin shook his head. No, Harold owed them. And now that Tostig was out of the way, they didn’t need Harold. For anything. ‘We were fighting for our earldoms, and the folk who depend on us.’
Morcar looked up at him, eyes beseeching, as he appealed to his elder brother. ‘And if I go?’
Harold would win against William. His prowess in battle was legendary and he had fought alongside William and knew his tactics. Morcar had survived his first battle, and fought well. Even with Harold’s fighting skills, Morcar would be more than a make-weight in his army. ‘You will be a useful sword arm for Harold.’
Morcar stood tall and his chest puffed out. ‘And you? You mean not to support Harold? Then why did you bow down to him in the first place? What will you do?’
He would send for his sister, keep her safe, out of harm’s way of the battle and its aftermath. Why did you bow down? Oh, how easy it would have been, to deny Harold, to make Godiva proud. But they needed royal backing until Tostig was out of the way. Edward’s death had thrown the silver pennies in the air, and Edwin had guessed, accurately, where they might land. It had taken some time, but all had fallen into place.
She is the widow of one rebel; do you wish her to be the sister of another?
Now, whatever happened, Ealdgyth was a queen. Either she would be the mother of a king, or, well… Harold only got where he is because his sister married the king. If the babe turned out to be a girl, then why not the queen’s brother, to rule in its stead?
Yes, that comet was a good omen, for it foretold Mercia once again in ascendance.
Morcar asked again. ‘So, where are you going?’
To speak to the Welsh. ‘To raise an army.’
Morcar shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in query. ‘To fight William?’
‘No.’ Let Harold take care of William, the last of the contenders.
Edwin’s thegns were beginning to gather. Edwin put his hands on his brother’s shoulders and squeezed. Nodding to his men to follow, he walked off the battlefield towards his horse, mounted up, and gave the order to ride out.
Waltheof, riding beside him, said, ‘Where to?’
‘Home.’ Next time, when the message came, he would be ready.
Author’s Note:
In reality, although Edwin did advance early at Fulford, he and Morcar were defeated. Their failure at the Battle of Gate Fulford forced Harold’s march to Stamford Bridge, there to confront, and defeat, the combined forces of Harald Hardrada and Tostig Godwinson (and thus, of course, Harold did indeed face his own brother on the battlefield.) Had the northern earls succeeded at Fulford, Harold would not only have had a fresh army, but Edwin and Morcar might have made it south in time to supplement that army, instead of arriving, as they did, after the decisive battle at Hastings, where in all probability the English would have defeated William.
1066 Turned Upside Down Page 4