All taverns harboured a whore who plied her trade around the ale-splashed tables. The girl at the White Horse was comely enough, although her hair was matted and greasy, her skin pock-marked and pitted with dirt. Well into their drink, two of the knights had made use of her services in the small, curtained back room. Eustace watched as a third from his party pulled back the shabby curtains and, reeling slightly, shambled across the room to join his comrades at the table, his hands fastening the lacings of his braies as he walked.
“By the virgin, that whore stinks!” he gasped, seating himself.
“She has all the necessary equipment in all the right places, though!” another cackled, simulating the shape of her bosom. “I will say one thing for Englishwomen, they are quick to lift their skirts for a proffered penny!”
“And we expect the penny to be paid!” The girl strode across to the Normans, her palm held out, flat and demanding. She spoke French well, if with an awkward accent. “I do not work for free, monsieur. I expect to be paid, even by a man with a pizzle as difficult to find inside your breeches as was yours.”
“Get you gone, woman! You stink more than my prize sow. When I want to pay for gagging on such a foul stench, I’ll visit the midden heap.”
The girl stepped nearer, her fist raised to strike, but her opponent was a soldier and was quickly on his feet, one hand blocking her blow, the other grasping her hair, pulling her head back. His knee came up and crunched into her belly. She doubled up, fell to the floor, clutching at the pain that burst within her. The Norman lifted a jug of ale, poured its contents over her head. “There, you have been paid! I have given you a bath and a bellyache!”
The landlord of the White Horse was a small, squat man with balding hair and pale-blue eyes that crinkled often into a cheerful smile. There was no pleasure on his face this night. Wiping his hands, he bustled from behind his serving counter. The girl was a fool, but she was popular with his customers and these crude louts were annoying him. He crossed to the window and began closing the wooden shutters. “Good sirs,” he said amiably, “I am closing, I would ask you to finish your drinks.”
“Closing?” The man who had refused to pay the whore was refilling a tankard, oblivious to her body curled on the floor and the low groan hissing from her lips. “It is but early, nor have we drunk our fill!”
Count Eustace stretched. The place was shabby and smelt of decomposing cabbage, but it was near the harbour and he had no inclination to walk further than was necessary. “I am content with this slurry pit. You will stay open.” He turned his full gaze on the innkeeper, daring him to contradict a count from Normandy. “Bring more ale.”
Although small in stature, the taverner was of Viking blood. No foreign muckrake, however noble, was going to make such rude demands of him.
“I say again, sirs, I am about to close. Finish your ale and get you from my inn.”
The whore managed to crawl out into the street. Men were making their way down to their fishing boats, preparing for the tide to turn, Englishmen of Dover who already disliked the Norman kind, who responded eagerly to the girl’s screams for help. So the Norman scum were ill-treating the landlord of the White Horse?
What began as a scuffle rapidly turned ugly. Outnumbered, the Normans battled their way to the door, into the street; in the mêlée, a candle tipped against the whore’s ragged curtain, flames engulfing it, taking hold of the dry timbers of wall and roof. Within moments the White Horse was ablaze. The innkeeper, dazed and bloodied from the savage beating the Normans had given him, staggered against an upturned table, fell. Was buried beneath the roof as it collapsed.
They ran for their lives, Count Eustace and his men, fighting off as best they could the anger of Dover. Two Normans were killed, one struck on the temple by a stone, the other, his skull split wide by the favoured English weapon, the axe.
Somehow, they reached their vessel, the Count bellowing for the crew to unship the oars and row. Anger thumped in rhythm with his pounding heartbeat; he cared naught for the several English dead, nor for the fire sending sparks into the night sky. No matter that his own people had begun the affray: the English peasants had murdered two of his men. The King must hear of it and the town made to pay compensation.
“We sail for Gloucester!” Eustace roared at the crew. “To where Edward resides with his court. I shall demand retribution for the insult paid me this night!”
30
Southwark
The port of Dover fell under Godwine’s jurisdiction. The King, petitioned by an incensed comte Eustace de Boulogne at the gross public humiliation he had suffered, issued immediate orders that Wessex punish the town for murder and affray. Godwine categorically refused on the grounds that the Normans were as guilty of the same offences. Edward, adamantly listening only to Boulogne’s account of events, retaliated by threatening to outlaw the Earl if he dared disobey his king’s express command.
Finally, goaded too far by Edward’s stubborn adherence to Norman influence, a war of words had ensued, with Godwine rallying his sons to his aid and the King summoning his Council and army to Gloucester. Godwine had halted his armed force fifteen miles from the town, at Beverstone on the Oxford-to-Bristol road.
Among the notables who rode to help their king, his nephew—stepson to Eustace—Ralf de Mantes, with an entourage of his French followers; the Earls Leofric and Siward, two men delighted to see their long-term rival publicly rebuked—and Robert Champart, the Norman-born Archbishop of Canterbury.
By skill and experience, Godwine had taken the initiative of the confrontation. With the strength of his sons’ men at his back he was in a position to intimidate the King, but Edward had found reason, at last, to slice Godwine’s feet from under him and, urged by his advisers and the Archbishop of Canterbury, was determined to move against Wessex. By the seventh day of September the exchange of anger was at red heat. Godwine demanded the surrender of Eustace’s men, accompanied by an apology to the people of Dover from the Count himself. Champart voiced an implication of treason. While messengers carried accusations back and forth, the armies of England mobilised, Englishman preparing to fight against Englishman. Yet neither side wanted civil war. For his own part, Edward was eager to overthrow Godwine, but not with bloodshed, not if there was any other way to be rid of him.
To the relief of all, a trial before Council, to be held in Westminster on the twenty-first day of September, was agreed. King, companions, army and estranged Earl moved to London, Edward shutting himself within the security of his completed Westminster palace and Godwine entrenching into his Southwark manor. But before anyone left Gloucestershire the King demanded hostages. Godwine had mild reservation about surrendering two of his family into the King’s care, but then his youngest son Wulfnoth and Swegn’s son Hakon would also be under Edith’s charge and no harm would come to boys who were protected by the Queen, their kinswoman.
“I say no, Father! If we agree to surrender our men to Edward, we will be left with nothing to outface him. We have an army ready to attack Westminster. Let us frighten the piss out of the King and his poxed Normans while we have the chance!” Swegn slammed the sword that he had been burnishing back into its scabbard, his expression that of thunderous anger—with good cause, for Edward had out of hand redeclared him outlaw, had given him two days to leave England.
Harold looked up sharply from the bridle harness he was mending. Swegn’s arrogant stupidity again! Fortunately his mother was not there to witness it. “So at your urging we start a civil war? What with? We do not have adequate men. We have only the Wessex thegns loyal to our father, and our sworn housecarls. East Anglia has decided not to risk the accusation of treason and has declared for the King, not for me. Neither you nor Tostig have anyone to call on for support. Had you not been so stupid in the past, perhaps you would still have an earldom of your own. We would have had more strength behind us!”
“If you were mor
e intent on your duties,” Swegn hissed back, “rather than playing nursemaid to your whore and her brats, perhaps Anglia might have been more willing to back you!”
Harold stormed to his feet, flinging the harness aside, his hand groping for his dagger.
Godwine thrust between them, bellowing in anger. “Is it not enough that we quarrel with Edward? I do not need the pair of you at each other’s throats as well!”
Harold backed down, apologising to his father. Swegn scowled and kicked at a hound sniffing for scraps of food among the dried reeds that covered the floor.
Godwine’s head ached and his chest hurt, his breathing coming in shallow gasps. Could his eldest son not see the difficulty they were in? “With this safe conduct I will get to see the King. We must make a peaceful settlement. Unlike you, Swegn, I do not want a war.”
“And you forget our sister, youngest brother and your own son.” Tostig complained. “Are we to abandon them to Edward’s mercy? If we commit ourselves to fighting, will they not be in mortal danger?”
“Father ought never have agreed for those boys to be taken. I said at the time that it was a stupid thing to do.” No one contradicted Swegn that on the contrary, he had made no comment whatsoever regarding his child, Hakon.
“Edward is not a man who would harm children, surely?” Leofwine asked doubtfully. He was two months into manhood, had little expected to be facing so grim a crisis so early in adulthood. “Hakon is four years of age, Wulfnoth barely ten.”
“That still leaves Edith.” Gyrth, the fourth-born brother, added drily. What Edith was thinking, feeling, no one knew, for no word had been smuggled to her, nor a message received.
“Neither the boys nor Edith will come to harm,” Godwine said with a quick, dismissive movement of his hand. “Edward is no murderer.” That he firmly believed. His son, his daughter, his grandson were safe whatever the outcome of these next few hours here in London.
“Edward, no.” Harold spoke softly, voicing the concern that drifted through their minds. “But what of the Archbishop and the King’s other advisers?” There was no telling what Edward might be persuaded to do, so deeply was he under the influence of Champart.
The situation was escalating with the wild wind of a raging storm. Godwine needed to put his case rationally before the Council, explain the view of the people of Dover, what they had suffered at the drunken hands of those Normans. So far the earls and nobles had heard only Boulogne’s version, had been influenced by Champart’s deliberately twisted judgement. He could not believe, for all their antagonism and past disagreements, that Siward and Leofric, once they heard the truth, would willingly vote for war. Not once he had been offered a fair chance to set matters straight.
“I have to go to Edward—and will only be permitted to go if I give assurance of my peaceful intention. For that, we must surrender the men who would fight against the Crown at our command.” What choice had he but to agree these latest conditions? He had to show that he had meant no harm in amassing these men who were unquestionably loyal to him. He had to disprove these outrageous charges of treason, to prove that he and his sons were, above all else, King’s men, and that he, Godwine, had implicit trust in the word and just law of that king. Though, in his heart, he held little enthusiasm for such a declaration.
Godwine turned to Stigand, the Bishop of Winchester, who sat in Countess Gytha’s favourite chair to the far side of the hearth. “Deliver our men to the King,” he said. “When I receive, in return, the surety of safe conduct and suitable hostages, then I will proceed, alone, to Westminster.”
Relieved, Stigand nodded his head. He had never particularly liked Godwine, often in the past their opinions had differed, sometimes with more heat than intended, but in this thing he gave full support. Edward had listened to those who advised for their own gain, rather than for common sense.
“You have made a wise decision, my Lord.” Stigand rose from his seat and left the chamber, calling for his cloak and horse within the same breath. He sighed as he mounted, set his bay gelding into a canter. It was drizzling again and the cold was blowing in off the grey, murky waters of the Thames. He did not much relish the ride to Westminster, nor the reception he feared he would get once he arrived. One as cold and wet as the weather, no doubt. Was he wasting both breath and time? What chance had he of turning ears that were as hard and as deaf as stone? But someone had to try and make the peace between King and Earl.
He returned to Southwark within a mere two hours. The Earl was not going to like this message that he bore from the King. Stigand did not much like it either.
***
“We are in a hopeless position, then.” Godwine sat slumped, his head sinking deeper into his hands. His hair carried more silvered streaks than it once had, his cheeks were sagging, skin sallow. He was seven and fifty years of age, no longer a young man. Gytha crossed the room with quick and anxious strides, set her hands to her husband’s shoulders, her paled face turning to Harold, her eyes betraying her fear.
Stigand’s hands trembled as he took the ale offered him by young Leofwine. The words he had just spoken to this family, here in this warm and homely chamber, were among the most difficult ever to have passed his lips.
“The King bids me tell you, Godwine of Wessex, that this is your final summons to answer the charges of treason before him and his Council.” Tears had trickled down Stigand’s cheeks as he had spoken. No, he had rarely agreed with Godwine, had often doubted the Earl’s intentions, but this was beyond all reason, all sense. Had the King lost his mind? Was he so very much influenced by the mischief that surrounded him at court? It seemed he was.
Stigand inhaled a slow, steadying breath. He had no desire to complete this obnoxious message, but it had to be done, and best get it done quickly for the sake of the lady. “Edward adds that he will be prepared to grant you full pardon, if…” Stigand faltered again, swallowed. Looked Godwine direct in the eye. “If you can restore to him his dead brother, Alfred.”
Yes, Godwine had made mistakes in the past and yes, he wanted well for himself and his family—what man of courage and ambition did not? But beneath those human frailties he was a good man who had served king, queen, and country with a loyalty rarely observed among his kind. He did not deserve such a wicked dismissal of his integrity.
Godwine straightened his back. His sons were looking at him, silent, expressions and emotions blank. Swegn, Harold, Tostig, Leofwine and Gyrth. They would follow him into the bloody field of war against their king if he asked them, he and his sons alone, with not a single man at their backs. If he asked it. He exhaled a long and contemplative breath. “Then there is nothing for us,” he said. “We are lost. We must seek exile.” Godwine looked to the Bishop. “How long have we been granted?”
Stigand answered quietly, his voice tense with emotion. This ought not be happening—if Edward could be so implacable to a man as important and powerful as Godwine, then what hope was there for the rest of them left in the hands of these damn influential Normans? “Five days, my Lord. He gives you but five days to be gone from England.”
31
Waltham Abbey
Edyth read the letter for a third time. The hurriedly scrawled words were unchanged, except the ink they were written in was becoming smudged by the tears that dribbled from her cheeks.
Harold was on his way to Ireland, taking ship from Bristol with his brother Leofwine.
“Edward will not harm you or the children,” the letter read in its brief explanation.
I, and the male members of the family, are declared outlaw. Our lands and entitlements are withdrawn from us and our lives endangered were we to remain here in England. My lord father and the others are to go from Bosham to Count Baldwin in Flanders, with as much of the family wealth as they can take on board ship. I know not when I may safely return. Kiss the children for me and God keep you, my most precious love.
The manor was safe, for Harold had transferred its ownership into Edyth’s name at the birth of their first son, along with several other estates scattered throughout Anglia and southern England. In her own right Edyth Swannhæls, as an earl’s lady, was numbered among the wealthiest of Englishwomen. What did she care for property and riches if she did not have Harold with her? She slumped forward, the letter fluttering from her fingers as her hands covered her face, sobs shuddering through her swollen body. She was eight months pregnant, the babe would be born with the coming of the autumn colours of russet and gold, and Harold might never see the child…
It seemed incongruous that the day was fine and warm, with a radiant sun and a playful breeze that trundled along the track opposite the manor, whispering among the sweep of the trees standing sentinel beside the cluster of streams that sprang from this highest part of the hill. A day that had started out so happily. She had promised to walk with the children down to the Lea river, to see the swans. They had been watching the pair since spring, marvelling at how the pen sat so stubborn on her eggs, how the cob protected and nurtured his wife and the youngsters once they were hatched. “Swans stay paired and mated for life,” Harold had once told her. “They choose each other and through no matter what, remain steadfast and loyal. As will I to you.”
Edyth was certain her heart was to crack into two. Never had she expected this, that he would leave her, so hurriedly, without warning. That one day he would perhaps take a noble-born wife was always there as a possibility, but this? Surely it was all nonsense, a misunderstanding? Harold’s letter confirmed otherwise. The King would not listen, would not entertain impartial justice for Godwine or the folk of Dover. She knelt beneath the copse of birch trees, the wind rippling the underside of the leaves into dancing waves of silver, closed her eyes, the tears slipping from beneath her wet lashes.
I Am the Chosen King Page 24