Swegn snorted. Did this fine-clad coxcomb seriously believe he could beat him in a straight fight? He, Swegn, who had fought more border skirmishes than Beorn had dreamed of? He turned his back on the upstart. “And what of you, Mother?” he asked, looking directly at the woman seated with composed elegance beside his sister. “Are you content to allow your nephew to so threaten me? Your sons to bait me as if I am a bull chained to a post in the market square? I am the first son delivered from your womb. Surely I take first place in your heart?”
Countess Gytha stood, smoothing her gown straight. She was a just woman who would be willing to forgive anything if she thought repentance to be truly and humbly offered. But she knew that if there was contrition in Swegn’s heart, purely selfish motives had set it there. “There are some wrongs,” she said, moving away from Swegn towards the door, “that do not deserve forgiveness in this life or the next. You claimed before me that you were no son of my husband’s. Well, I claim here, now, before you all, that this foul-mouthed, evil-smelling stench that passes himself as a man is no son of mine. I did not bear him, nor do I know him.” She dipped her head to Edith by way of courtesy to her queen, and left the chamber, walking with quiet, upright dignity.
In the silence that followed Gytha’s departure Edith looked from one to another of the men standing in the amply furnished room. There had been few occasions since her marriage when she had been able to exploit her rank. This was one of them. “You have insulted this family and disregarded our honour for your own gain. You come here, to my husband’s court, expecting our delighted welcome? You will not get it. Do you understand me?”
Swegn carelessly shrugged one shoulder. He bowed low and as he returned upright, spread his hands in mocking submission. “I understand you, madam. In turn, you must understand this.” He half bowed a second time to Harold, Tostig and Beorn. “As you stated, Wessex is not mine to claim from my father, but for the King to give.” He smiled laconically as he moved with lazy ease towards the door. “Equally, the return of my title and lands is for Edward to decide, not you, my dear sister. We shall listen to his judgement. I have no doubt his opinion will differ somewhat from yours. Mayhap because his need of gold is greater, hm?”
Harold had unsheathed his dagger, was poking with its tip at some dirt uncomfortably lodged beneath his nail. In a flame of anger he hurled the weapon across the room, the blade singing through the air to embed itself in the doorpost, inches from Swegn’s ear. “Then the King will need more than your Judas payment, Swegn. He will be confronted with a difficult choice—and we all know the King shies from having to make decisions.” Harold strode across the room, took hold of his dagger and jerked it from its quivering resting place. Sheathed it. “If he as much as considers the return of your lands, he will face the strong possibility of rebellion from Earl Beorn and his Earl of East Anglia.”
***
Slamming his boot against an empty barrel, Swegn sent it toppling and rolling across the darkness of the inn’s squalid courtyard. He swore, vehemently and colourfully. He might have expected to get nowhere with his family! They were, all of them, utterly selfish.
After leaving his sister’s solar, he had strolled to an inn for a hearty drink of ale and then wandered to the stables to await the King’s return from hunting, hoping that his father’s attempts to see him reprieved would have borne fruit. It would have, had Harold and Beorn not ridden out to meet with Edward on the road to persuade him otherwise.
Swegn kicked again, shattering the wood. No one, save for his father, had spoken for him, backed his claim or supported his cause. Not one damned other person. Nor was there opportunity to pursue it further, for enemy ships had been sighted prowling along the coast. To counter the threat, the full fleet of forty-two keels was to reset sail as soon as the tide turned, under the command of Godwine, Tostig and Beorn. Harold was to sail northward to intercept the raiders along the Essex coastline. There was nothing for Swegn to do. His ships were not wanted; his years of experience not required. He could have helped, but the King had dismissed him and his gold and his ships. Had given him four days to be gone from England.
He was damned if he was going to give up that easily, though. There must, surely, be some other way to influence the King into taking him back into favour?
25
Pevensey
News arrived at Sandwich, a matter of hours after the fleet had sailed, that not only the eastern counties of England were vulnerable to immediate attack. Whether by coincidence, or because he knew the King and his earls to be busy elsewhere, Gryffydd ap Rhydderch of South Wales had taken advantage of the periodic raiding by Irish Vikings by striking up an alliance. He and his new-acquired friends were making a thorough nuisance of themselves along the lower reaches of the rivers Severn and Wye, and into the Forest of Dean.
By chance, Swegn, who had tarried in Sandwich, vainly hoping to meet with the King, heard the news that his old Welsh enemy was rampaging on to English soil again. His first instinct was to leave it, let the King—and Earl Beorn who now held those lands—deal with it. He ordered himself a fifth tankard of ale, sat drinking it in the corner of a tavern. He would have liked to have dealt with Gryffydd himself, though, personally put a final end to the whoreson. Another two ales and he had convinced himself that he could do it. He had his ships waiting for him at Bosham, he could sail up the Severn and effectively cut off the attack. The Irish-Welsh alliance would not be expecting a counter raid, for the English fleet was occupied by the blockade—they certainly would not be expecting Swegn son of Godwine to appear!
By first light he was on the road, pushing his horse hard, his mind set on this way of proving his worth to Edward—and to his poxed sister, brothers and cousin. A few miles from Pevensey he learnt that part of the fleet had been driven ashore, was weather-bound. Swegn’s smirk of confidence broadened as he rode beneath the gateway into the town, found stabling for his horse and tracked down the inn where his cousin, Earl Beorn, was apparently lodged.
Heads turned as a tall, well-dressed man strode into the tavern. In the way that it often does when unease stubbornly follows a man’s character, silence settled, spreading in ripples from table to table. He was looking for someone, for his gaze darted across the room and fixed on the nobleman over in the corner.
“What do you want?” Beorn called. “If the King hears of this, he will hang you.” The Earl stood slowly as Swegn stepped forward into the crowded room. Beorn resisted an impulse to curl his fingers around his dagger hilt as Swegn, spreading his hands to show he carried no weapon, pushed his way through the crowd of men.
“Forgive my intrusion, cousin, I am heading west for Bosham and heard you were in harbour.” Swegn seated himself on the bench opposite. “That wind nigh-on swept me off my horse as I rode down the High Street, no wonder you sought cover.”
Reluctantly, Beorn signalled for a second tankard and more ale. “So you were passing, and decided to seek my company?” he shook his head. “I think not, cousin.”
Swegn shrugged, came direct to the point. “You must have heard that Gryffydd is raiding across the Wye into Herefordshire?”
Beorn nodded. He had heard. “The matter is being dealt with.”
“Adequately? I doubt it! Gryffydd is looting your earldom, Beorn. It was once my earldom. I want it back—want something left to get back. I cannot sit by and see that heathen devil running loose, unchecked.” Swegn leant his muscular arms on the grubby, stained boards of the table. “I shall soon be returning to Bruges, but before I do, I would like to ensure that murdering, thieving bastard is defeated and dead.” He studied his hands a moment deep in thought, scarcely noticing the dirt beneath torn nails, the scar from an old wound across the knuckles of his left hand, the four expensive rings adorning his fingers. Then he looked up, locked eyes with his cousin. “It is an old feud that I would dearly like to settle. I could have ridden straight for Bosham, this wind will not be s
o fierce around the Island of Wight. I could have taken my ships and sailed up the Severn alone. Attacked and defeated those Welsh scum, and returned to court to claim all the glory for myself.” He set both palms flat to the table. “But I did not do that. I came instead to seek you, to ask if you would come with me and take command of two of my ships. Two capable men will be more effective than one.” Impulsively, Swegn reached forward, gripped his fingers around Beorn’s wrist. Think on it! I doubt you can do anything here for the next, what, three, four days? We could be on our way to sort the Welsh once and for all. Think of the reward we will receive!”
“So you are doing this for reward? As you attacked Danish villages for reward from Hardrada?”
A scowl creased Swegn’s beard-stubbled face. “Yes, I intend to do this for reward. Do you think I enjoy exile from my own country? Being shunned by my family, my king? I want forgiveness. I do not want to be away for another year and another after that. If I must leave England, I would rather leave exonerated, a free, untainted man.”
Beorn knew how it felt to be a man in a country that was not one’s own—but he had voluntarily left Denmark to join Godwine’s family, for there had been nothing for him there. Uncertain whether to believe this sudden display of contrition, though, he said, “You should have thought of that before abducting a nun.”
“Do you not think I have reprimanded myself on it? Oh God! Why did I act so stupid?”
Pity moved in Beorn’s heart. In the past, he had committed deeds that he had regretted—who had not? And where a handsome woman was involved…He stood, walked around the table, laid his hand on Swegn’s shoulder. “I will come with you. But I will take command of five ships, not two.”
Swegn leapt to his feet, grinning with delight. “Three ships.”
“Four.”
Swegn hesitated. He had seven ships. Four for Beorn, three for himself? The men would not take kindly to orders from Beorn—ach, they could sort the details later at Bosham. “Four then. It is agreed!”
Their hands joined, palm to palm, fingers gripping. An alliance for adventure.
***
As Swegn had predicted, the easterly wind was not so strong further along the coast at Bosham, but that was the only thing he was right about. His men showed no disinclination to change allegiance to a new commander and Beorn had no intention of changing the agreement. Four ships he had asked for. Four ships he was going to have.
Swegn tried flattery; he offered bribes. Then, with temper rising, he turned to threats that escalated into angry abuse.
Beorn ignored all of it, placidly informing Swegn what he could do with his ships and his plans, and sent a man to saddle his horse. “Do what you like, Swegn. I am returning to Pevensey and the fleet. I will tell the King of your comments about my manhood and capabilities, shall I?”
They were on board Swegn’s command ship, a sleek, clinker-built craft of Viking origin. Over fifty feet in length and thirteen wide, she towered above the quay, the fierce-eyed dragon-head at her bow glaring out to sea impatiently, awaiting that moment when she would be loosed from her mooring, allowed to skim the waves in freedom.
“Damn you, Beorn!” Swegn blocked him from stepping out on to the gang plank. “I’ll not let you run tattle-tongue to Edward! You agreed to help me—or have you lost your stomach to face the Welsh? Too dangerous for you, are they?”
“I agreed to help in this thing for command of four ships. It is you who have gone back on your word, not me. But then you never were one for whistling the truth, were you, Swegn?” Beorn raised his arm, intending to push his cousin aside. Wrongly assuming he was about to be struck, Swegn reacted as any fighting man would, by instinct rather than thought. He hit first, a clenched-fist blow to the jaw.
Beorn went down like a felled tree. The tide was to turn within the half-hour; if they did not sail then this chance to intercept Gryffydd would be gone. Swegn knelt beside his cousin, slapped his cheek, shook his shoulder, but the man was unconscious. Several of the crew gathered round, offering unhelpful advice. The handful of men that Beorn had brought with him were ashore, awaiting orders. Beorn could not have brought more away from the fleet, not in this private venture, and Swegn had assured him that all seven ships were fully crewed.
Always one to act quickly, Swegn ordered Beorn’s wrists and ankles bound, “Take word ashore that my cousin has decided to sail with me.” Swegn grinned at his men. “We leave with the tide—and if Beorn does not agree with my tactics, well, all the more gain for us when we cut those Welsh throats!”
The men cheered, set about readying the ship. Most of them could not give a damn whom they served, or whether their betters quarrelled among themselves. As long as there was looting at the end of it, who cared if one lord toppled another?
The seven ships ran down the coast, hugging the land to avoid the worst of the winds, put in at Dartmouth to overnight. With the coming of the morning, only one ship remained, was left, solitary, beached upon the shore.
Beorn had taken exception to being bound like a common thief. The skin sore and bleeding, he had worked his wrists free of the shackles, intending to use the darkness to slide quietly over the side of the ship. Had Swegn expected him to try for an escape? He caught Beorn as he crept along the deck, threw him down, their fists pummelling, knees and feet kicking as they rolled together, fighting, trading blows, Swegn’s temper was ever hot and easily spurred. He reached his hand for his dagger, the fingers closing around the hilt, drawing it from its sheath, the blade glinted…
Six of the ships took advantage of the night tide, deserted Swegn, left him to answer for the bloody murder of one of his own.
26
Waltham Abbey
Harold arrived home, dishevelled, begrimed and smelling of sweat, horse, blood and tiredness. The fighting along the marshland beside the Blackwater estuary had been short and fierce. Both sides had remembered the tales of another bigger battle of the past, told them around the hearth fires by their fathers: the great battle at Maldon, where the brave had fallen prey to the Viking kind. This summer’s raiders were not warriors like their ancestors, these were mere opportunist pirates. Faced by the sword and axes wielded by the housecarls of the Earl of East Anglia, they ran, tails between their legs, to the safety of their ships—but the damage had already been done: villages burnt, women used or taken as slaves, men and cattle slaughtered.
Angry at the wanton destruction and needless taking of innocent life Harold, despite his best efforts, had found it difficult to keep the raiders at bay. Catch them along one headland, a brief flurry of fighting and they would move further up or down the coast, to a new location, a different village to plunder. They came for corn, cattle and slaves—and gold from the churches, though they professed to be Christian men.
Running the sea-wolves into the Blackwater estuary had been a stroke of luck, which Harold took full and successful advantage of. They would not be back, not this year, those who had escaped with their lives.
As he eased from the saddle, back, shoulders and knees aching, a boy ran from the cattle byre, feet pounding, arms pumping. He would be five years old, come Christmas, was short and chubby with a set, determined chin. He threw himself into Harold’s outstretched arms, “Papa!” he shrieked. “My papa is home!”
Others had heard the horses, were coming out to greet the Earl and his men, Edyth herself, running from the Hall, joy on her face, Harold scooped the boy into one arm, clutched his wife to his chest with the other, kissing her passionately while the lad wound his arms tight about his neck. It was good to be home.
“You are growing tall, my lad.” Harold said, releasing Edyth to lift his son high above his head with both hands. “I would say you are almost big enough to ride my stallion.”
“I am big enough now!” Goddwin boasted with glowing pride. “I ride Mama’s pony, I can ride on Squirrel!”
“What, that fat little
turnip?” Harold winked at Edyth. “Your Mama used to ride her when she was a little girl. Would you like to sit on a real horse? Just this once?”
Goddwin was already wriggling, reaching out towards the destrier’s saddle. “Be careful, dear,” Edyth said, half to her son, half to Harold as he lifted the boy up. Stallions were noted for their unpredictable natures.
“Walk on!” Goddwin commanded, kicking with his heels—the big horse felt nothing, for the boy’s legs were too short to reach his sides. Taking hold of the bridle and clicking his tongue, Harold led the animal forward, circling the courtyard twice, his son sitting proud and straight.
“My, you will make a fine earl one day!” Edyth declared, clapping her hands with approval.
“Oh, no,” Goddwin answered. “I don’t want to be an earl. I want to be a king. Kings stay at home while the earls do all the work.”
“And who told you that, son?”
“Mama, yesterday.”
Edyth blushed. “I meant no offence to the King…”
Harold swept his arm around her again. “Your mama is quite right,” he said, laughing, to the boy. “But I am afraid you will not be a king, so you had best practise your riding and learn how to be an earl instead.”
A servant led the stallion away; Harold’s housecarls were greeting their own wives and families; Harold and Edyth stepped inside their manor house overlooking Waltham and the valley of the river Lea. The Earl was returned and it had become a complete home.
The Mead Hall itself was a rectangular, timber building fitting for Harold’s status, but modest in size and structure, designed primarily as a home for a man and his growing family. The public area was large and airy, with central hearth and a vaulted, beamed roof. Swords and axes, animal skins and deer antlers, two aurochs’ horns, gold-tipped, with carved patterns adorning them, decorated the walls. At one end, opposite the double, wide-flung entrance doors, was a raised dais where Harold, Edyth and any guest of importance would eat. By day the Hall was cleared of the trestle tables and mead benches, used instead for the routine of everyday farming life. As the sun drifted downwards, the benches and trestle tables were reset for the evening meal, when all were welcome to eat with their lord. In the northern corner beyond the dais, a doorway led to a wooden stairway.
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