“A choice you would naturally champion, Madam.” Edward’s reply was acerbic. “Æthelric is, after all, your father’s half-brother.” These persistent interferences from Edith were becoming more than annoying. She had not adopted the passive role that he had assumed a wife would take, nor had Godwine been subdued. The only advantage was that he did not have his earls pestering him to take a wife, as in those early days of his reign.
“I do not endorse him because of family connections, Sir!” Edith retorted. “I would remind you that I emphatically opposed your favouring of a certain member of my family.”
Was that a reason, Harold secretly wondered, why Edward had decided in favour of Swegn? To spite Edith?
Edward’s features wrinkled with displeasure as he regarded his wife. An interfering, sour-faced bitch, that’s what she was. Influenced by her arrogant father who sought to control King and Council.
Council! Huh! What need had he of the mutterings of a group of old men? England needed young minds and spirits, eyes that looked to the future, not toothless old gums that regurgitated the past. Moribund men who were as tedious as his wretched wife.
Edward’s confidence in government had increased as the years of kingship had passed. Apart from the occasional minor border or coastal raids, England had been at peace for eight years, a peace Edward was determined to see continued, if only the Council would allow him a free rein. He was King, damn it, and his word ought to be law! About time these humourless bigots realised that fact. All he need do was keep his nerve in the face of their opposition, make his decision and stick to it as firm as a spider keeps a fly caught on the web. He ruled this land, not his Council—and certainly not the family of Godwine.
“I have made my choice for archbishop.” Edward stated, his scowl focusing on Edith. “Robert Champart, Abbot of Jumièges, is to go to Canterbury.”
They had expected it, but still the clamour of outraged disapproval could have shaken the very walls of the building. All were on their feet, some shaking their fists, vociferously expressing horror that a Norman, a foreigner, should take such an exalted position. Only Edith and two men remained quietly seated: Robert himself, with an expression of self-congratulation idling across his mouth, and Harold, whose thoughts were with his daughter. Her breathing had been fragile when he had left, her skin damp. It did not seem right that God was soon to take one so young and innocent. What had she seen of the sun? To run and laugh, to find delight in the wonder that was His world
Edith sat stunned at her husband’s sublime foolishness. Could he not see that England would never accept such an appointment? Unease was already rippling through the country that too many of Edward’s Norman friends were receiving positions of high office: advisers, clerics, abbots, shire reeves and constables of law. If Edward wanted to ensure the loyalty of the land-folk he ought to promote the English-born, not the ambitious, greed-wasted friends of his exile. Champart especially would not be tolerated. Could Edward alone, among everyone within Council, court and country, not see his true character? That his fawning and grovelling was for naught but his own gain?
The protests clamoured in Edward’s ears, jangling at his nerves and temper. How dare these imbeciles dispute his decision? What right had they to challenge the crowned and anointed?
“Champart is a foreigner!”
“A Norman!”
“This is not acceptable!”
“We must have an Englishman at Canterbury!” Godwine said and Edward unleashed his fury at the Earl, who in his mind was the instigator of all discontent and disorder. It was always Godwine who barred his way—Godwine who had supported Cnut, who had made no attempt to secure the safety of the two princes, himself and Alfred.
“My mother was a Norman foreigner!” Edward shouted at Godwine. “Yet you supported her without qualm. Nor is your wife of English blood. Is it, then, one law for you, Godwine, one for me? I owe much to those in Normandy who gave me succour when England cast me aside. I remember the kindness—aye, and the hatred that my mother and you held for me.” Edward thrust himself from his seat, took three long strides to stand before Godwine. His spittle flecked the Earl’s cheeks. “Nor have I forgotten the death of my brother.”
Men had backed away, their shouts of dismay at Champart’s appointment fading into whispers. The Earl of Wessex stood alone and vulnerable before the fury of the King. How Godwine wanted to thrust a dagger into Edward’s uncompromising, shallow heart—but despite the occasional rumour and slander he was no murderer. He cared too much for his hard-won position, his wealth and family. Oppose Edward and he could lose everything.
The Earl breathed deeply, spread his hands, etched dismay and innocence into his voice and expression. “My Lord, your wisdom supersedes mine own. You are King, I am but an earl.”
“Then remember it,” Edward hissed. “You will begin by sanctioning my choice of archbishop.”
Godwine retained a calm exterior. Inside, his rage was seething. One day Edward would push him too far. This came close—to capitulate to that scheming devil Champart…but what could he say? Do?
Godwine bowed his head. “Of course, my Lord King.”
***
The King’s private residence at Canterbury was basic: practical for the necessity of government, but lacking in comfort. Several timbers of the high, arched roof beams were showing signs of woodworm and dry rot, the flooring was substantially patched. The Hall smoky, draught-riddled and stinking of damp.
Edward’s guest, his brother-in-law comte Eustace de Boulogne, thought it more representative of a swine hovel than a royal building. “Duke William builds in stone. It is more enduring, and adequately expresses power, control and strength,” he remarked casually to Godwine, as the two men strolled behind the King, inspecting his mews.
“Expresses the awareness of attack also. Protection is only required when there is vulnerability.” Godwine observed, standing back so that Boulogne might admire a particularly handsome falcon. “I have no need of stone castles in Wessex because I am not likely to be attacked from within.”
Boulogne haughtily cleared his throat. “Normandy is a young land; she perhaps has more troubles than do you.” He turned to Edward. “You have some splendid birds here, Sir, I would be honoured to purchase a nestling or two from you.”
Edward glowed at the praise; hawks and hunting dogs were his pride. “I shall arrange it—you must take something of worth back to the Duke too, in exchange for the generous gifts he sent. He is a young man of some renown, so I hear, a lad with promise.”
“He is valiant in both battle and politics. Normandy is becoming an important duchy under his hand.”
“A hand that spares not the lash, so I hear,” Queen Edith said. She passed the kestrel that had been gripping her hand back to the master falconer, removed the stout leather gauntlet that had been protecting her skin against its talons. “It is said that his ambition is over-zealous and his kindness non-existent.” She had no liking for Count Eustace, found him to be an obsequious lecher, who set his own worth above that of any other man—duke or king included—opinions not formed entirely by her own observations. Her sister-in-law Judith, Tostig’s wife, had known him in Flanders. That he was here with some private motive, beyond his official representation of Duke William, was obvious. Edith could see his ambition as clearly as his puce-coloured nose. Edward saw naught but a man interested in hunting and hawking. The fact that Eustace had a grandson born to his only child, a daughter, added weight to Edith’s suspicions. While Edward had no heir of his own seed, there would always be others coveting a crown.
Coming to the end of the row of birds, Edward indicated the door leading to the courtyard. They had inspected the hounds earlier—that bitch the Duke had sent was a superb example of a hunting dog—long, clean limbs, alert eyes and ears, slim head, muscular body and quarters. If William was as good a judge of people as he was of dogs, then aye, he
should go far. Edward turned to Godwine as the group returned for refreshment within the King’s Hall. “Eustace informs me that the Duke seeks alliance with England. I intend to agree his proposition.”
“Council ought be consulted where any truce with a foreign power is suggested,” Godwine stuttered. God’s truth, why forge an alliance with an insignificant such as Normandy? What could that small duchy possibly offer England in return?
“On what terms, sir?” Harold asked. He had not wanted to join the royal party this afternoon, his thoughts still concentrated on his daughter, but after the disagreeable arguments of the morning he guessed it would not be politic to refuse the King’s invitation. And what more could he do to alleviate her suffering? The physicians had done all they could, had told him it was only a matter of time before God took her to His heart. At least in heaven she would smile again, would be relieved of her pain. It all seemed so futile, though, standing here talking of hounds, hawks and allegiance with a poxed upstart who had no care for England, beyond what would be useful for himself.
Eustace de Boulogne answered for Edward confidently: “In return for England’s affection and support, the Duke offers to censure all who use his harbours with the intention of prevailing upon your coast. He will attempt to forbid any piracy emanating from Normandy.”
Edward nodded in enthusiastic approval. “We welcome such assurance. Is it not a fortuitous alliance, Earl Harold?”
Harold caught the gruff expression on his father’s face, the scepticism that flooded Edith’s. Could Edward not see that only empty air was on offer here? “Censuring and attempts at control are not binding conditions. We would require something more solid were we to ally ourselves with territory rife with rebellion and bloodshed.”
Eustace, blustering, attempted to make a counter-remark, but Edward interrupted. “Nonsense, Duke William is my own kindred. I have every faith in his word. England is plagued by those who wantonly use his harbours for their own gain.” Edward placed a light kiss on each of Eustace’s cheeks. “On your return to Normandy you will take word that I welcome your duke’s offer and that I warmly embrace him as my beloved kinsman and friend. Tell him that I have not forgotten the succour and kindness that Normandy gave me. So long as he looks to England’s best interest, he will always be made welcome within my realm.”
Boulogne beamed, delighted. It had been so easy to capture Edward’s friendship and trust. Almost too easy.
Edward turned to his two earls and his wife, expecting approval; met instead, stony silence.
“It is prudent to close the Norman coast to our enemies,” Godwine responded with patient tact. “I wonder if the Duke could also influence Flanders to do likewise?”
Edith had no such inclination to be tactful. Must she endure more of this sickening embarrassment? To be wife to this…imbecile. There was no other word for him. Well did she realise, now, what Queen Emma had suffered during those interminable years of marriage to this fool’s father. It made her sick to her stomach to listen to the drivel that washed from his lips, the naïveté that swivelled in his empty-brained head. “Duke William,” she announced, “seeks your alliance, Edward, not for England’s well-being but because he is desperate to gain favour with influential friends of the Pope. He is threatened with excommunication for continuing his bid to wed Baldwin’s youngest daughter. Once he has her, he will show no more interest in the safety of our coast. Indeed, he may well encourage those sea-wolves, for I have no doubt he shares in their booty.”
Edward thrust his face at her, a scowling mask of hatred. What did this damned woman know of politics or government? How dare she interfere? “Go back to your loom, madam. I do not require to hear gossip from your tattle-telling lips.”
Tartly Edith retaliated. “I am not a gossip. I am telling you the facts. The Duke is set on defying the Pope’s ruling. It is not fitting for a man of your beliefs to ally with one who is soon to be excommunicated from the Church.”
Edward was not alone in cursing Edith’s interference.
“You may doubt my Lord William’s intention,” Boulogne said fiercely, his small eyes narrowing at Edith. “Let me assure you there is no duplicity.” With deliberation he turned back to the King and bowed deeply. “If it pleases you to have assurance of our sincerity in this, I am willing, on my Duke’s behalf, to place my young grandson into your personal keeping.”
The giving of a hostage; a common strategy. How simply had Eustace’s planning worked! “A child of your blood kindred”—Eustace smiled at Edward, his wheedling tone not lost on Edith—“would surely be most welcome within a childless court?”
Edith clenched the rage within her teeth. So she was right in this. That was indeed this odious man’s aim. Unless a son was born to her and Edward—and that did not seem likely—at his death the nearest in blood kindred would stand good chance of gaining the crown. Ralf de Mantes, Edward’s nephew, the son of Eustace’s wife by her first marriage, was at this moment proclaimed ætheling, a man throne-worthy to be considered next for king. But why not Edward’s great-nephew? A kingdom was a wondrous lure for an ambitious grandsire.
For his own part, Edward thought he had more sense than either his wife or earls credited him with. He had divined Eustace’s intentions from the first day of the Count’s ostentatious arrival two weeks past—why else would a man of his position travel abroad for an insignificant Duke, who would probably meet the wrong end of a dagger blade within the turn of a year or two? He had enjoyed Eustace’s exaggerated flattery, however. Let the ass believe he had wooed and won the King of England, set his fledgling into the nest like a cuckoo. Here was a way to slam a door into the faces of both Godwine and Edith together, and neither could murmur a word against it.
“It is a good offer,” he declared, with a delightful clap of his hands. “The child will come to my court and I shall nurture him as if he were my own son.” Then he hurled his full spite at Edith: “After all, in that respect, my wife shall remain a disappointment to us all.”
Edith’s face flushed scarlet. How dare he put blame on her, make pretence that her childless condition was of her doing! Harold reached out to clamp his hand around his sister’s wrist, shook his head with warning, advising her silence. The barb was deliberate, but now was not the time or place to pluck it from the wound.
She stared with contempt at Edward, ignoring her brother’s warning. “From what I hear of Duke William,” she said, “he is a strong-minded man, who possesses a remarkable sense of political ingenuity. He is a leader who knows how to fight for what is his. You may send your grandson to Edward’s court, Lord Eustace, but I assure you he will learn nothing from the King of manliness. Here, he will learn naught but how to live as a monk and hunt game.” Her insult was aimed direct at Edward and it hit its mark. She shook her arm free of Harold’s restraining grasp and walked away, leaving Edward to splutter his indignation, and her father to placate him.
29
Dover
Self-satisfaction was a gratifying emotion. The pleasure of success radiated from Eustace de Boulogne as light flows from the sun. With his grandson entrenched in the royal household and written messages from the King to Duke William in his saddle bag, his future glowed rich with promise. Duke William would be delighted with the alliance that Eustace had established on his behalf, would undoubtedly reward him well. It had occurred to Eustace that perhaps his grandson’s interests would be better served if he himself were to remain in England, but he could not bear to part with his lands and established station in life; and were he to alter allegiance from William to Edward, the Duke’s anger against him would extend across the Channel Sea.
The road to Dover was dry and throat-choking with dust, the August heat shrivelling the crops, drying the streams and rivers. Unless rain fell in England soon the harvest would be a poor one this year, not that Eustace cared for the plight of English peasants.
His men, an escort
of twelve Norman knights, rode sullen and sweating, their horses lathered and in need of water. The harbour town would offer a cool breeze from the sea and, hopefully, the ship that was to carry them back into Normandy would be awaiting their arrival. Now that he was going, Eustace was eager to return home, his men also, for they had not seen their families since the early months of spring.
Where the track crossed the river ford, a boy was allowing his father’s small herd of milk-cows to drink. Eustace ordered his men to move the urchin on so that the horses might be watered. The lad, barefoot and dressed in a rough, home-spun tunic, ignored the approaching horsemen, not understanding their gruff French. The ford was wide and the water, although shallow from the drought, was there for all who travelled the road. One of the men rode his horse into the river, shouldering the cattle away, his hand gesticulating. The boy stared up at the man in his chain-mail armour, puzzled.
“Are you so insolent that you ignore my order? Move away, imbecile, before I take my sword to you!”
The boy stared at the knight’s contorted, angry face. He had heard French before, for sailors who spoke that tongue often put into the harbour, but the words meant nothing to him. He shrugged, fear widening his eyes as the knight drew his sword and pointed the gleaming blade at his throat. Turning quickly, abandoning the cattle, the lad began to run. The Normans laughed, exchanging sneering remarks on the pathetic nature of these English as they allowed their animals to drink their fill.
To their disappointment, the ship was ready but the tide was not. Eustace was annoyed, but there was nothing to be gained by arguing. Ordering the baggage to be sent aboard and the horses loaded, he pointed to the White Horse tavern, straddling a corner of the narrow, sewage-strewn main street. With its candles and lamps just lit, the sound of talk, laughter and singing emanating from its open doors, it appeared welcoming.
Eustace and his men sat together at a table near the door, appreciating the evening breeze and fine English ale. Two of the knights had shoved aside the group of men who already sat there, using hands and swords; the Englishmen had moved, muttering angry curses. Merchantmen, sailors, men of the sea were welcome at the White Horse; rowdy, arrogant foreigners who thought themselves superior to the local inhabitants were not.
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