‘All that matters is gone. Love. And courage. And honour. And kindness. I have nothing left.’
‘You have something left.’ She reached into a leather pouch. From it she pulled a sharp glint of gold, brighter than her hair.
The point pierced my palm as she thrust it into my hand. ‘The needle can mend. The sword cannot.’
The colours were so bright they hurt my eyes.
Blue.
Like the sky on the day we wed.
Yellow.
Like the korn fields of Coventry. Like my grandmother’s hair.
Green.
Like the leaves in the wildwoods of Arden, where I played as a child.
Grey.
Like the stones of the convent walls.
Red.
I shuddered as I folded out the linen, white as a shroud, and picked up the first length of wool.
I would start with red.
Battles. Ships. Knights. Shields. Horns. Birds. Fish. Beasts. Fields. A dragon-tailed star in the sky.
‘I didn’t want this,’ my grandmother said, disapproving, when she came to the convent where I had stayed and found me hard at work, eyes strained, fingers sore.
In the basket beside me skeins of wool had become tangled. I pulled on a thread and refilled the needle.
Harold’s mother Gytha came to visit me. I was at my work.
‘You are making a gift for the Conqueror?’
Biting off a thread I nodded.
She stared at me as if I had lost my wits.
‘Why?’
‘The truth must be told.’
‘The Normans do not want our truth. They want our tales to be lost. That’s how they conquer. By taking our lands, our language, our songs and stories.’
‘They will not know it is my work. My thread will twist the tale. What is revealed is what is concealed.’
She tossed her head, impatiently. ‘You speak in riddles.’
‘I tell the story two ways. By hand, by stitch. This embroidery will seem as if it praises William. Yet it is Harold my work will praise.’
‘Show me.’
Carefully I unrolled the linen.
‘Here is the tale I tell of Harold. I have started it from before the battle, from when he went to Normandy, to Bayeux, and met William.’
Gytha exhaled. ‘When he was first betrayed by the Norman Duke and his lies.’
I showed her the depiction of Harold at prayer. ‘See here,’ I said. ‘Here he prays, devout. It is a good picture of him, as a Godly man. But below, here,’ I pointed to the birds that grovelled on the ground, ‘Here is William. The ungodly.’
She peered closer, smiled, and then frowned.
‘Surely the Normans will be able to tell you mock the Conqueror?’
I shook my head. ‘I think not. Those who are so proud cannot see themselves in a poor light. They can only judge others by it.’
Sewing was the way to do it, I’d decided, for stitches must hold true. The story must not be told from the Saxon side alone, or it would be destroyed. I would make it so artful that no one could bear to destroy it. I would not flatter Harold nor William, but tell the truth as it was. Two-sided.
‘Show me some more,’ Gytha demanded, imperious.
‘Here is our King,’ for that was the title I still gave him, in such company.
‘Here he is at feast. And here are the Norman wolves that surround him, licking their paws.’
‘But they will read it as if it is Harold who is crafty.’
‘In the language of fable, yes.’ I nodded. ‘Even the Normans know Æsop’s tales.’
I laughed at the thought of the work perhaps being hung in a Norman court. There would be secret jibes against those in whose very halls it hung, for those who had eyes to see it.
My laugh was as rusty as an old needle.
‘I think my Lord would have liked this one. Here he rides high,’ I indicated him mounted, noble on a horse, ‘and here he makes love like a lecher.’
If I thought to shock Gytha, just as I could never shock my grandmother, I could not. She gave a bawdy chuckle. ‘Like father like son.’
It was I who blushed. To hide my embarrassment I pointed to the crow poised in a tree.
‘Here is the fabled crow,’ I said. ‘Who taunts and boasts of his own prowess. It may be thought to be Harold who boasts and was then defeated. But this embroidery is my fable. Here I tell the tale. It is William who crows, yet secretly I defeat him. My sword is my needle.’
She stared at it in wonder, unfolded more. When she raised her eyes they were alight, no longer dulled with a grief as grey as mine.
‘Edith.’ Gytha begged me now. ‘You must let me help. It is too much work for one pair of hands. The whole story must be recounted. I can put women to work, many skilled with the needle.’
‘None must know our true purpose,’ I warned.
‘My women will do as they are told.’
I was sure they would.
In the end, it was not only Gytha’s women who sewed. Word spread by stealth, whispered among women, in halls, houses and cloisters across England. Pieces were described in code, stitched in secret. Other scenes were sewed openly. Harold’s sister Edythe snorted. ‘Men never take notice of what women are doing.’
Some women, widows, mothers of lost sons, gave pieces of wool. Some sent needles, sharp as knives. My own beloved daughter, Nest, made for her part a red dragon, the creature of Wales. Harold’s sister Edythe worked with skill and speed, often by my side at the convent. She joined together the pieces as it grew, like a banner unfurled.
And my grandmother, of course, she sewed too. Horses, mostly. And lions. For Leofric, her husband, the lionhearted. My grandmother’s ancient nurse, now blind, sewed day and night, for the darkness did not bother her. She needed no candle.
Sometimes I too sewed by the light of the moon and no other. Sometimes it seemed I sewed by night and by day, for now my night dreams were full of stitches.
One morning, when I awoke, I thought to be in a dream, for a vision of beauty stood before me. Wrapped even as she was in a thick, travel stained cloak, the loveliness of her face and figure could not be disguised.
We sewed all day, in near silence. She was not as skilled at the art as I, but her stiches were even and fine, her long neck bent to the task.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply, when the work was done.
I looked at the picture she had made after she had gone. It was a house on fire with a woman and child fleeing from it.
I never saw her again. But I heard, later, from my grandmother, that she had fled a house burned by the Normans. Her sewing was a message of survival, or triumph, perhaps.
‘She was braver than me,’ I said, ashamed.
‘There are many forms of courage,’ my grandmother said gently.
I would need it for when the babe was born, our child who would never see his father.
Faster and faster I sewed.
I wove myself into the tale.
One night my grandmother halted my hand, laid hers over my restless fingers. ‘You cannot sew much more, Edith.’
‘I’ve almost finished my part,’ I said.
She looked at my design curiously. ‘I can’t make out the meaning of this section. It’s a puzzle.’
I pointed to the veiled, fine dressed woman I’d embroidered. She stood out, for apart from the scene of the burning house that Richenda had made, there was only one other scene depicting a woman.
‘You can see this is a Saxon noblewoman,’ I said to my grandmother.
My grandmother nodded. ‘Of course. By her veil, her tunic.’
I pointed to the tonsured man who touched the noblewoman’s face. ‘To some she will appear to be struck across the face by this cleric, struck by the hand of God fo
r her sins. To others, she will appear to be receiving holy instruction, being chosen for a sacred task.’
‘The tapestry.’
‘Yes.’
That night my pains began.
I stitched on and on until I could almost do no more.
Yet it wasn’t complete. Not yet.
Waters broke around me. I gritted my teeth and worked on. I sewed the man’s naked body. Whole. Intact. Set him below the woman and God’s hand.
At last it was finished.
Above my final scene I signed my work, between two red dragons.
One word.
Each letter a strain, a push.
At last it was complete. The black thread broken.
Ælfgyva.
Elf’s Gift.
The needle slipped from my hand.
Author’s Note
For centuries, there has been dispute over the origins of the Bayeux Tapestry. Did Flemish, French women make it? Did English women? Does it praise William the Conqueror or subtly mock him? Or is it King Harold who is mocked? And who is the ‘Mysterious Lady’ featured on the tapestry, with the name ‘Aelfgyva’?
In this tale, I knew I wanted it to include my personal heroine, Lady Godiva, the subject of Naked: A Novel of Lady Godiva. As she was the grandmother (or step-grandmother) to Edith, wife of Harold, it was easy to imagine she passed on some traits and skills to her granddaughter. I wanted to capture the power of women in the tales they weave, and no more is this revealed than in the mysterious fabric of the Bayeux Tapestry. It is a work of art, secret and legend that has stood the test of time.
In Lady Godiva’s lifetime, a popular Saxon saying was ‘Men wield weapons while women weave’. (In Naked, Godiva also wields a sword, but that’s another story.) Yet the needle, like the pen, has its own power. Before 1066 the word ‘mend’ had two meanings. One was to repair, the other was to make right or remove a fault, to make ‘amends’. In the end, the needle may indeed be mightier than the sword.
Eliza Redgold
www.elizaredgold.com
Discussion suggestions
What is the difference between embroidery and tapestry? Can you think of any other such commemorative items that survive to tell the tales of the past?
Have you any thoughts on what the little images (some of them sexually explicit) along the borders of the Bayeux Tapestry could mean?
ENDWORD
HELEN HOLLICK
From the germ of an idea an entire e-book has blossomed and grown. Enriched by enthusiasm, passion – and hard work – the result, we hope, will prove to be rewarding. The eclectic mix of stories have given us, a diverse group of writers, great pleasure to produce. Although a joint effort, we were all responsible for our own contributions, from the initial idea, through the writing, rewriting and editing process, to the final proofreading. On behalf of us all, thank you to our various editors and to the staff at Matador who put the whole thing together as a finished edition. Also to Cathy Helms of www.avalongraphics.org for the wonderful cover design, and the delightful C.C. Humphreys for his inspiring foreword.
Historical fiction is occasionally a Cinderella genre, often eschewed by some academics who claim it is not ‘proper’ history, and discussed in depth, even by its stalwart supporters – should novels about history be as accurate with the ‘facts’ as possible? Does historical romance, complete with semi-naked hunks and women with heaving bosoms, count as historical fiction? Then there is historical mystery, thrillers, adventure, fantasy, steampunk – basically anything set in the past (usually at least fifty years ago) now counts as historical fiction. And despite what some bookstores may claim, the genre, with all its sub-genres, is immensely popular.
But what of alternative history, where what actually happened is altered in some small or great way? No, it is not ‘factual’ history, it is imaginative fiction, written perhaps tongue-in-cheek or to explore ‘what if’ possibilities – as we do here in 1066 Turned Upside Down. The whole point of fiction – any fiction – is to create cracking good stories that are a cracking good read. So does it matter if the content is true or not? I hope, in this particular case, no, it doesn’t!
Helen Hollick
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ANNA BELFRAGE
Had Anna been allowed to choose, she’d have become a professional time-traveller. As such a profession does not exist, she settled for second best and became a financial professional with two absorbing interests, namely history and writing.
Presently, Anna is hard at work with The King’s Greatest Enemy, a series set in the ١٣٢٠s featuring Adam de Guirande, his wife Kit, and their adventures and misfortunes in connection with Roger Mortimer’s rise to power.
The first book in the series In The Shadow of the Storm was published in November 2015, the second book in the series, Days of Sun and Glory, in July 2016.
When Anna is not stuck in the 14th century, chances are she’ll be visiting in the 17th century, more specifically with Alex and Matthew Graham, the protagonists of the acclaimed The Graham Saga. This series is the story of two people who should never have met – not when she was born three centuries after him.
All of Anna’s books have been awarded the IndieBRAG Medallion, she has several Historical Novel Society Editor’s Choices, and – as the icing on the cake – one of her books won the HNS Indie Award in 2015.
Website www.annabelfrage.com
JOANNA COURTNEY
Ever since Joanna sat up in her cot with a book, she’s wanted to be a writer and she wrote endless stories, plays and Enid-Blyton-style novels as a child. Her favourite subjects at school were English and history, and at Cambridge University she combined these passions by studying medieval literature. Nowadays she pours them into writing historical fiction.
Joanna cut her publication teeth on short stories and serials for the women’s magazines before signing to PanMacmillan in 2014 for her three-book series The Queens of the Conquest about the wives of the men fighting to be King of England in 1066.
Her fascination with historical writing is in finding the similarities between us and them – the core humanness of people throughout the ages – and her aim with this series is to provide a lively female take on an amazing year in England’s history.
The Chosen Queen and The Constant Queen are out now and The Conqueror’s Queen will be released in 2017.
Website : www.joannacourtney.com
RICHARD DEE
Richard is a native of Brixham in Devon, England. He left Devon in his teens and travelled the world in the Merchant Navy, qualifying as a Master Mariner in 1986.
Coming ashore to be with his growing family, he flirted with various jobs, including Dockmaster, Marine Insurance Surveyor and Port Control Officer, finally becoming a Thames Pilot over twenty years ago.
He regularly took vessels of all sizes through the Thames Barrier and upriver as far as London Bridge. He recently returned to live in Brixham, where he has taken up science fiction writing and blogging. He retired from pilotage in 2015.
The Rocks of Aserol is his third science fiction novel and the first in a steampunk series, published in September 2016. His other titles, Freefall and Ribbonworld are adventure based Space Opera, and are available in paperback and electronically.
Website www.richarddeescifi.co.uk
HELEN HOLLICK
Helen moved from London in 2013 and now lives on a thirteen-acre farm in North Devon, England, with her husband, daughter, son-in-law, and a variety of animals which include horses, a donkey, dogs, cats, ducks, chickens, a rabbit and a bad-tempered goose.
Born in London, Helen wrote pony stories as a teenager, moved to science fiction and fantasy, and then discovered the wonder of historical fiction. Published for over twenty years with her Arthurian Pendragon’s Banner Trilogy, followed by her 1066 era duo. She became a USA Today bestseller with her sto
ry of Queen Emma: The Forever Queen (titled A Hollow Crown in the UK), and its companion novel, Harold the King (titled I Am the Chosen King in the U.S.A).
She also writes the Sea Witch Voyages, a series of pirate-based nautical adventures with a touch of fantasy. They have been awarded the coveted IndieBRAG Medallion, and Helen has signed a contract for the entire series to be translated into Italian and German. Some of her other books are also available in several languages.
She has been commissioned by Amberley Press to write a non-fiction book about pirates in fact, fantasy and fiction, which is due to be published in 2017. She hopes to write Madoc The Horseman, an adventure series set during her Arthurian period novels, may, one day, finish the medieval history degree she started – and complete her 1066 series with a third novel. If she ever finds the time, that is.
As a supporter of Indie Authors she is Managing Editor for the Historical Novel Society Indie Reviews, and inaugurated the HNS Indie Award.
Helen is also co-scriptwriter for the proposed movie 1066.
Website www.helenhollick.net
G.K. HOLLOWAY
After graduating from Coventry University with an honours degree in history and politics, he worked in education in and around Bristol, England, where he now lives with his wife and two children.
After reading a biography about Harold Godwinson, he studied the late Anglo Saxon era in detail and visited all of the locations mentioned in the sources. When he had enough material to weave together facts and fiction he produced his novel. 1066 What Fates Impose is the product of all that research – and some additional imagination. A sequel is on its way.
1066 What Fates Impose is a story of family feuds, court intrigues, assassinations, plotting and scheming, loyalty and love, all ingredients in an epic struggle for the English crown.
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