Someone called out, “This is doing nothing save giving us all blinding headaches. We have a situation where our decision is divided. Throwing meaningless accusations is getting us nowhere.”
Earl Leofric added his stout, strong voice, the bellow rising above the mêlée. “As his son, Cnut took the elder boy, Swegen, to Norway…”
“And the boy’s mother handed Norway to Magnus Olafsson on a trencher! I loved Cnut, but he was not above making wrong decisions where the spread of a woman’s legs was concerned.”
Leofric ignored the interruption. “Why would Cnut accept the one son and not the other? Harold is Cnut’s son. Did Cnut, while he was alive, ever deny that fact?”
Shouts of agreement, of jeering, the one faction against the other.
“Is it not plain,” Leofric shouted, “that Harthacnut has no interest in England? Why is he not with us, here in Oxford?”
“Harthacnut is delayed by the weather, as you well know,” Godwine interceded, springing to his feet. “Would you have him risk the uncertainty of winter storms and wager his life to suit your satisfaction? We are, most of us, seamen; we know the terror of the tides.”
“My son,” Emma added forcefully, dipping her head in gratitude at Godwine’s interruption, “will be here by Easter. In the meanwhile, as God’s anointed, I am his representative.”
“And my son is here, now, and he can—will—command an army if any of you spineless lizards go against him!” Ælfgifu threatened.
Archbishop Athelnoth tried to be heard. “Gentlemen, it is to us to decide. We must vote our preference.”
“With votes divided half for Harold, half for Harthacnut?” Ealdred of Bernicia chided in his strong northern dialect.
His brother, Eadwulf, sitting beside him, declared, “The North will not elect a King who cannot attend his council.”
“And the South will not elect a King who is bastard-born, whether he be Cnut’s son or no,” Godwine countered.
“Please, be at peace.” Athelnoth put his palms together as if in prayer. “May I make a suggestion?” Reluctant, the agitated men settled and listened. “To be true to our conscience, we must allow Harthacnut the chance to come to England. Earl Godwine of Wessex speaks correctly; it may be the weather which delays him. I propose we adjourn until Easter.”
Murmurs of agreement; for most of them sitting there, their backsides were becoming numb, their bellies rumbling for food, throats becoming dry for ale or wine, but a decision had to be made before council could rise.
“By doing so we leave England open and vulnerable to attack. Someone must rule, must keep the law!” That was Ælfgifu, indignant.
“Attack from where?” a Thegn asked, a minor northern Lord. “There is no one to threaten us. Normandy is a boy, with his own troubles of staying alive; Henry of France is too lazy to leave his palace; Germany would never leave her borders unprotected; and Magnus Olafsson has Norway to secure.”
“Which leaves only Harthacnut in Denmark,” Emma chirruped, pleased the thing had gone full circle. “And I rule on his behalf as regent. England is only vulnerable internally, from base-born usurpers. You must therefore elect Harthacnut.”
“There is no must about it!” Ælfgifu shouted.
“Ladies, ladies!” Athelnoth boomed. “I propose that Queen Emma take care of the South until we meet again at Easter, and Harold shall see to the safety of Mercia and northern England. To my mind it is a sensible compromise.”
To the minds of others also, for there was a sudden relieved shout of assent.
Emma was mistrustful of the idea, but on rapidly thinking it through, could see the sense. Once Harthacnut reached England, this shambles would be sorted, and Easter was not too long to wait.
The men, pleased that a conclusion had been reached, broke into small groups, some discussing the issue and the outcome, others more eagerly anticipating the morrow’s promise of good hunting.
At the door, Earl Leofric drew Godwine aside. “I am surprised you are so openly backing Harthacnut, in light of what sort of man his father was.”
“And what do you mean by that?” Godwine could never remember liking Leofric, not even when he had been a child brought to court by his father. A boy who was always boasting of having the fastest pony, the most silver in his coin pouch and ensuring that others knew he had the better of them.
Leofric shrugged innocently. “Only that I am amazed you remained friends with Cnut despite all. If that had been me, I would have danced on his grave.”
“I admired and respected Cnut, as I admire and respect the Queen.”
Leofric chuckled. “Oh, we all know how you admire her, Godwine. But is it only admiration, or are you hoping for more?”
Not liking the insinuation, Godwine’s face began to blotch with red anger. “I remind you I have a wife.”
“I would not blame you for wanting to take Emma as wife instead. After all, you have just cause to set Gytha aside.”
Ignoring men pushing past to leave, Godwine curled his fingers into a balled fist. “By which you mean?”
“That Cnut bedded your wife often enough for you to want to bed his.”
Godwine hit him, fast, straight, with his knuckles, directly into his face. Leofric fell, blood bursting from his nose.
Lifting one hand to stem the flow, his other waving concerned onlookers aside, Leofric scrambled upright, his blood-smeared face leering. “Did you not know? I see by your face you did not!”
“I have no idea what you are talking about; if you are trying, in some warped way, to turn me from supporting Harthacnut, then you are miserably failing.”
“Your wife’s younger brother, Eilaf, told me. His estates bordering mine; I saw much of him before he died from that illness.”
“Told you what?”
“Told me of what the elder brother had said. How Ulf had caught Cnut romping with your bare-breasted wife.” Leofric took the hand away from his nose, inspected the amount of blood. “You talk of Harold Ælfgifusson being base-born, Godwine? What of your sons? Are you so certain they are not cuckoos in the nest?”
7
February 1036—Bosham
Gytha knew there was something wrong. She assumed her husband’s moroseness to be the result of his ineffectuality at the Oxford council. They had argued again this morning; it was more of a surprise not to disagree these days. The slightest thing, the most innocuous remark, and Godwine would flare up like a torch set to marsh gas. All she had said was that the boys were going to be sailing the new boat they had built, and why did he not take advantage of a rare fine February day to go with them? Why he had so suddenly stormed from their bedchamber she had no idea.
“Mama, be this the right amount of flour?” the girl at her side asked. Edith, seven years old, a child who had a thirst for learning. Another few years and she would be sent to the nunnery at Wilton for a formal education. Gytha would miss her, but not as much as she would miss her boys once they found the impetus to fly the nest.
Peeping into the bowl—she was making bread with her daughter—Gytha smiled at the fact that more flour was on the bench than in the mixture. There had been tears from Edith, too, this morning, when Swegn had refused to take her out in the boat. She had as much a temper on her as any of her brothers.
“You are a girl, girls do not sail!” Swegn had jeered at her, a six-and-ten-year-old who thought himself a full-grown man.
“I sailed as a girl on the fjords at home in Denmark,” Gytha had stated, coming to her daughter’s defence, wagging her finger at Swegn and his two younger brothers, Harold, fourteen, and Tostig, eleven. “I know how to reef and row as good as any of you three lads.”
“Aye, but, Mama,” Harold had impertinently retorted with a broad grin, “that was when you were young. You have too much girth around you now to row!”
Gytha had swiped his ear with her apron.
The dough mixed and patted into loaves, Gytha put them beside the hearth to prove. Then, wiping the girl’s stic
ky hands, suggested they wrap themselves in warm mantles and walk to the creek to see how the boys were getting on.
The inlet at Bosham was flooded, although even with the sea full in, care had to be taken, for some channels were shallower than others. Swegn, disagreeing with Harold, had insisted on tacking to the steerboard side. Smiling with a mother’s fond indulgence, Gytha could hear her second-born berating his elder brother for his stupidity, his voice carrying clear over the water.
“I said not to, you dolt; there are reed banks here! Now look, we’re stuck.”
“No problem,” Swegn tossed back, “all we have to do is rock her free.” And he began jumping from side to side, pushing against the mast.
“You’ll tip us over!” Tostig yelled.
“Don’t be daft; she’s too sturdy for that,” Swegn assured, leaping again. The boat dipped, and he fell over the side, arms flailing, legs kicking.
Tostig screamed; Harold laughed.
On the bank, Gytha shook her head in exasperation. Just as well she had insisted they had learnt to swim, full clothed, at an early age.
Crowing her delight, Edith slipped her hand out of her mother’s and ran towards her father, approaching from the church. “Papa, Papa! Come see. Swegn was showing off and has fallen in.”
Dutifully Godwine answered her summons, gazed with a stern frown at the eldest attempting to sprawl, sodden, into the boat. Harold pushing him back into the water.
“Pull us off while you’re in there.”
“The water’s cold, Harold; don’t be such a shit!”
“You got us here; you get us off.”
“Are you not proud of your boys, Godwine?” Gytha laughed, turning to her husband, the smile faltering as he thrust a curt answer.
“My boys? Are they?”
Stunned, Gytha stood, hands on hips, confused. “What do you mean by that?” Again, angry. Louder: “I said, what do you mean?”
Ordering Edith to fetch dry clothing for Swegn, Gytha set off after her husband, grabbing his arm before he entered the stables.
Rare for Gytha to let loose her temper. “You have been as a hungry wolf prowling through dark woods these weeks, Godwine. What is it I am supposed to have done? Tell me!”
He shook her off, went inside the stable-barn, and fetched a bridle. “I go to Winchester,” he said. “The Queen shall be wanting me.”
“You go nowhere until you explain yourself.”
“Do I need to explain?” he scoffed. “Is it not you who ought to be doing the explaining?”
“I do not know what this nonsense is, but it stops here, now. You have been treating me and your sons as if we have the pox since you returned from Oxford. What is wrong?”
Godwine’s jealousy had reared full to the surface, along with his anger and humiliation. He had loved Gytha all these years, rarely looking at another woman; to fear that perhaps she had not loved him in return and lain with another twice his worth, with Cnut, was unbearable. Yet he did not have the courage to ask if it were true, for he might see the lie in her eyes when she denied it.
“Tell me of Cnut,” he said suddenly, gripping her wrists in his clamped fingers. “Tell me of the night your brother found you romping all but naked with the King!”
Gytha said nothing, stood, staring. What was he talking about? She shook her head, frowning, then laughed, remembering the incident from so long ago. “Who told you of that silly business? One of the northern men who had once been friends with Ulf, I wager?”
“Not Ulf, Leofric. Eilaf told Earl Leofric, who then told me, and I had no doubt he enjoyed waiting for the right moment to do so. How he must have been laughing at my stupidity all these years!”
“Your stupidity? No, Godwine, his.” Carefully Gytha picked the tight fingers from bruising her skin any further. “He told you false, husband. That you believed him makes you the fool, nothing more.”
“You deny you lay with Cnut?” The hurt spilt from Godwine’s mouth. How he wanted her to deny it, and wanted to know she told him the truth!
Gytha put her hands on each side of his enraged face and lovingly waggled his head from side to side, a calm and gentle shaking. “Of course I deny it. It is not true. My brothers—both of them—always were able to see great mountains where there were only molehills.” And she told him precisely what had happened those years ago, every detail, leaving nothing out. Of the King, drunk and lonely, of Ulf returning ahead of Godwine. Did he remember the night Cnut had slept, snoring fit to wake the entire hall, in their bed?
Godwine furrowed his brow, thought back. Did he? No.
“Swear to me,” he said, taking her hands, crushing her fingers with his urgency for knowing. “Swear to me my sons are mine.”
Godwine desperately searched his wife’s blue gaze for deceit, but he saw none, saw only her own hurt at being doubted.
“God’s teeth, that bastard brother of mine made me swim to shore, would not let me in the boat!” The door slammed open; Swegn, dripping wet, shivering, burst in. “Edith said you were in here, Mother. Where are my dry clothes? I need to get out of these before my sodding balls freeze solid and snap off!”
He stopped, realised his mother and father had been quarrelling, retreated, raising his hands in submission. “I will find them; I will manage.” But Swegn, being Swegn, an avid collector of other people’s business, could not resist listening at the door.
Gytha tentatively smiled. “And you doubt he is your son? Even though he bears the image of your face and swears in the exact same manner? Still you doubt?”
Godwine slowly shook his head, slumped against the timber wall, attempted an apologetic grin. “We are, all of us, using mud to throw at our opponents. Emma accuses Ælfgifu of lying over the parentage of Harold; Leofric accuses you of bedding with Cnut. As a goad to destroying loyalty, such tactics appear to be working well, do they not?”
8
March 1036—Roskilde
Striding into his King’s hall, Harthacnut removed his cloak and, tossing it to a servant, walked towards his visitor with both arms outstretched in greeting. “Godwine! I am so sorry to have kept you waiting! I have been inland. Once it thaws, we will be knee-deep in mud.” The two men embraced, hand clasped to arm. “You were not waiting long I trust?” Harthacnut added, guiding his guest towards the hearth-fire and shouting for ale to be brought.
“I arrived yesterday, so, no, not long.” Yesterday morning, a whole day, but no matter.
“And you are well? Aunt Gytha? Your sons? I suppose you know Aunt Estrith died last November?”
He did. “Two days after your father, I believe?”
“Yes, strange that, was it not?”
Again Godwine nodded, yes, strange. Idle chat, surface gossip. Since setting out, Godwine wondered what he was doing coming to Denmark. He felt in his bones this was going to be a fool’s errand, but Emma had begged him to fetch Harthacnut home.
“I would ask a favour of you, Godwine.” Harthacnut was attempting to be the pleasant, welcoming host, yet the smile did not reach the eyes that did not meet with Godwine’s.
Making a jest of the undercurrents of discomfort, Godwine laughed. “What? Favours already, and I have only just arrived!”
Harthacnut laughed. “I would have you take Beorn Estrithsson with you when you return to England, for a season or two, if Aunt Gytha would not mind the having of him at Bosham? He is missing his mother, and, being the same age as your Harold, it may be that the change of scene will cheer him.”
Godwine happily agreed. He had been going to suggest it himself, although not so soon upon arrival. To talk of when he returned within the same breath of giving welcome seemed to be a barrelful of tactlessness.
“The eldest boy, his brother Svein, is taking the loss better?” Godwine asked.
“He has other things to occupy his mind. I have made him my heir, you know, should I not have children.” Harthacnut chuckled again, a mirthless, self-deprecating sound. “Which, given I never find time to bed a
woman, seems nigh on a certainty at the moment!” He was not going to be telling his personal secrets—that he had tried with women but found himself impotent. Who did you trust enough to speak of a matter like that? Certainly not a man who had sired a whole crew of sons.
Godwine remained silent. Harthacnut was a good-looking young man. He had turned six and ten last birthing day, looked all of five or six years older. When he compared him with his own Swegn, God’s truth, how clumsy and immature his son appeared; although having discovered women, Swegn could never find the time for anything except sexual pleasure.
There was no point in rummaging about the bush. Godwine decided he might as well come straight out with why he was here. Surely Harthacnut must have guessed, so why this pitter-pattering? “Your mother has sent me to fetch you.”
“More ale, Godwine? Your tankard is empty. Ah, good, they are bringing us food.”
Looking at him, Godwine realised that, although Harthacnut had an air of confidence and carried himself well—knew the right gestures, the rights words to say—he was too young to show much of a beard or moustache. The skin around his nose and forehead was blemished with adolescent pimples. He was a boy, nothing more than a boy doing a man’s work.
“In public, your mother hides her grief, but she often has red-rimmed eyes of a morning and sits for hours gazing at nothing, her fingers fiddling with whatever she holds in her hand.”
Harthacnut chewed the meat pasty he had selected, wiped crumbs from his mouth with a linen cloth. Denmark was his home. He knew so very little of England.
“My father brought me to Denmark when I was a child. From then I saw him perhaps for a month once a year, occasionally longer. How can I miss a man I did not know?”
“It is not for your father that I am here, but your mother.”
“I am not a hound to be whistled to heel, Godwine.”
“We never thought you were, lad.”
Harthacnut’s sudden-risen hackles settled. “All I know of England is a manor house here, a town there. I remember nothing of it from childhood. I was not born until I came to Denmark.”
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