I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  When Harold had left here less than twenty days past to answer his father’s urgent appeal, he had assured her there was no need for undue concern. “It is all hissing steam from an over-boiling pot,” he had said with an easy, confident laugh. “My father will sort things amicably, you will see.”

  “Mama?” A frightened voice quivered beside her. Edyth looked up, saw her eldest boy standing there, his face sombre, concern etched into his widened eyes. His grandmother had once said how much he resembled his father at that age of seven years; the same curl of fair hair, jutting chin and quick, exuberant laugh. “Mama?” he asked again, stretching out his hand to touch her cheek. “What is wrong? Are you ill? Shall I fetch someone?”

  Attempting a smile of reassurance, Edyth gathered Goddwin to her. When would the boy see his father again? “No, my honey-sweet, I am not ill.”

  “Is it the babe, then?” Goddwin set his hand lightly on the bulge of his mother’s stomach. “He kicks hard, I can feel him.”

  “He is kicking to tell me that he wants to be out in the beauty of the world, playing in the sunshine with his elder brother.” Edyth kissed her son’s forehead. He was a good boy, quick to learn, slow to cry or whine. Harold was so proud of him, of all their four children. Five, if you counted Alfrytha, who was with God, buried in her cold and lonely grave within the churchyard at Canterbury. Suddenly, afraid, she held the boy tight and close. She would never see her little girl again, as she might never see Harold…no she must not think like this. Must remain strong and calm. Harold had gone to Ireland to bargain for mercenary help, Godwine to do the same in Flanders. To buy aid in the form of men and arms, to return as soon they might to persuade the King to listen to reason. “Your father has had to leave England for a while,” she explained to her son. “He will return when he can, as soon as he can, but that may not be some long while.”

  Goddwin chewed his lip, his young mind rummaging through the implications. “Why has he had to leave?”

  “Because the King is angry with your grandfather.” Best to answer simply and with the truth.

  “But if the King is angry with Grandfather, why has my father had to go away?”

  Placing a kiss on her fingertips, Edyth laid the caress on to the boy’s lips and set him to his feet. “Because if a son loves his father, it is his duty to be with him in a time of great need.”

  The boy digested her words, then nodded. “My grandfather is lucky to have my father as a son, isn’t he?”

  “Aye. As your father is lucky to have you.” Edyth pushed herself upright. The babe was heavy; she would be glad when this birthing was over. Goddwin bent and retrieved the piece of paper, squinting at the writing that he had not yet learnt to decipher well. With it, he picked up an unopened package. Gravely, he gave both to his mother. Rolling the parchment into a scroll, Edyth slid the precious letter into her waist purse, then unthreaded the knots of the string that bound the cloth of the package.

  Inside lay a necklace made of threaded gold bullae and biconical gold beads; at the centre, a gold and garnet cross. It was exquisite. Edyth squatted down so that Goddwin could fasten it around her neck, emotion almost choking her as the tears once again welled up from her heart. A gift, sent with love from Harold. She cupped the crucifix in her hand, closed her eyes. “God protect him,” she prayed, Please, God protect him.” She could not know it, but Harold had sent the gift with the same prayer, aware that childbirth and all its possible difficulties would soon be upon her.

  ***

  Gytha also wept, but inwardly. At this moment there was too much to do, in too short a time, to indulge herself with grief. “No, not that chest, this one!” she called in agitation to servants removing items from the house place to the ship. The tide would be turning soon and they would sail to a new country, a new life. Please God, Gytha thought, let us not be long from our home. Bosham was where she had come as a young bride; where she had birthed her children and watched them grow…She drew breath. It was no good thinking like this. Better to do away with material things than the life of her husband and sons.

  Harold and Leofwine were safe, would have sailed from Bristol. Wulfnoth? Would he be all right with Edith? Godwine assured her he would. He had come unexpected, her last-born son—she had thought her childbearing years to be finished, her moon courses ended, thought nothing, initially, of the weight that had padded her belly. He had come so easy to birth, half of an hour from the first uncomfortable twinge in the hollow of her back…so unlike Swegn—two days had she laboured to bring him to life.

  Swegn. Swegn ought to have gone with Harold into Ireland, but he was ailing, with giddy heads and blurring vision, his tempers the greater for the pain that stabbed at his brain. Gytha rarely allowed him to enter her thoughts, not after all the troubles he had brought to this family, but this, for once, was not his doing. This had been brought by those Normans who wanted her husband gone from court, from England.

  She must remember the balm for Godwine’s aching knee-joint. So much to pack, so much to leave. The finest table and bed linen were already stowed in chests and aboard ship, along with the six best wall hangings. Silver tableware and glasses had been set for safety in straw. Bolts of silks and brocades, linen and fine wool; fur robes, her finest gowns, Godwine’s tunics and braies, his armour and weaponry. The Hall harp, of course, and the family’s books. Her sewing box, jewellery and combs—nothing of value was to be left for Edward to confiscate. Besides, if they were to make a home in Flanders—however temporary—they would do so with honour and comfort. There would be no begging or casting for second best for the family of Godwine.

  32

  Westminster

  Freedom tasted of fine wine and sweet, briar rose honey. This is what it was to be king: to have no one, no one at all, telling you what to do.

  Edward propped his feet on the footstool and exhaled a contented sigh. Godwine was gone and, with him, all those damned annoying habits. The tactful cough, the patient sigh—oh, how Godwine had grated on his nerves! And now the Earls Siward and Leofric regarded him with wary apprehension, all he need do in the future, when one of them provoked him or overstepped his authority, was to reminisce how he had, single-handedly, brought down Godwine, Earl of Wessex? They would all think more carefully before voicing opposition, would agree with enthusiasm to his plans. Aye, Edward was well content.

  Robert Champart, Archbishop of Canterbury, standing with his backside warming against the red glow of the brazier, cleared his throat, politely, reminding the King that there was business to be completed. Robert found it a difficult trial maintaining patience where the King was concerned. Edward’s mind flitted from the essential to the frivolous within almost the same thought, was incapable of concentrating for any length of time on matters of government. The Archbishop had concluded that Edward had come to office too late in life, had never been taught the discipline of responsibility. That was his mother’s fault. Had she taken care to ensure her son was nurtured for kingship, had she not abandoned him to exile, Edward might have learnt to take responsibility for himself and others.

  “I am not persuaded about your proposition for East Anglia, my Lord.” Champart said, his voice smooth, like silk gliding over unblemished skin. “Ælfgar, son of Leofric of Mercia, would be the better candidate for earl.”

  Edward ignored the suggestion, answering instead, “I think I shall hunt on the morrow. I’d like to see how those new young hounds fare—that brindle seems a splendid bitch, don’t you think?”

  “Sire. Anglia must have an earl.” Robert’s impatience showed. “Decision ought be made without further delay. Appointing Ælfgar will efficiently bind Mercia to us. If he feels his son may lose control of a prestigious earldom Leofric will not tolerate any possibility of Godwine or any of his brood returning.”

  Edward’s pleasure faded. He removed his feet from the stool, slumped forward and folded his arms. Why was this new palace
of Westminster as cold as the old place? Scurries of wind danced around his ankles despite the thickness of the stone walls and panes of leaded glass in the windows. Querulous: “I do not much like Ælfgar.”

  “It is not a matter of liking, sir, it is a matter of appointing the most suitable man for the position. Ælfgar is, I assure you, the most suited.”

  “Nonsense.” Edward hunched his shoulders and, to be awkward, added, “Harold was the best man, only he had the misfortune to be Godwine’s son. I enjoyed many a good day’s hunting with Harold. His forests of Epping and Hatfield hold especially fine deer.”

  Robert sighed. “The deer will remain in the forests under Ælfgar’s prerogative, Sire. I believe he is a keen hawk-man.”

  “Hawking is all very well, Robert, but it is the chase that stimulates me, the chase!” To emphasise his enthusiasm Edward mimed the motions of holding the reins, circling his hands to imitate the speed and exhilaration of a gallop across country.

  “East Anglia, my Lord—”

  “Oh, to hell with bloody East Anglia! Let Ælfgar have the damned place.” Edward lurched from his bench, swept his arm through the pile of neat scrolls on the nearby cleric’s table, startling a squeak from the man as the ink pot toppled, scattering quills and black mess over parchment and floor. “Why can you not leave me in peace?” His stomach grumbled, he would need to visit the garde robe soon. These discussions of formalities either gave him thundering headaches or cramped bellyache. Decision-making, pah! He detested decision-making.

  ***

  The third hour of the afternoon and already the candles and lamps were lit. Edith rubbed at the chill in her fingers but remained stubbornly sitting within the comparative privacy of the window recess in her solar, her eyes occasionally lifting from the Bible she was attempting to read, although she had not turned a single page this past quarter of an hour, A servant came to close the shutters, but she waved him away, did not, yet, want to lose what was left of this short November day. From where she sat she could not see the river along the eastern boundary of the palace. The Thames would be as bleak and grey as the louring cloud; the wind scuttling through the reeds like the path of an unseen predator. Snow would come soon.

  The child was wailing again, its red face puckered and squashed like a wrinkled, dried grape. Eustace of Boulogne’s wretched grandson. Edith detested the brat. If babes were this much of a nuisance then how glad she was that she would have none of her own! Edward adored him. He was attempting to rock him to sleep, while making crooning and clucking noises. Edith would have suggested he pass the child back to its nurse, but she dared not, for once already this dreary afternoon they had come close to quarrelling. She had merely suggested that perhaps the children ought to be removed to their own chamber. But Edward enjoyed games and merry-making with the children of the court, a variety of nieces, nephews, cousins and the like. To see a grown man playing with a toy sword, tossing a cloth ball or kneeling on the floor, marching carved wooden soldiers into battle…pressing her lips together, Edith again looked out of the window. Did he regret not having his own children, she occasionally wondered; no, Edward was nothing more than a child himself, had no sense of adult responsibility or duty; his moods and ill-judged, infantile humour were more suited to a lad in his early years of spot-faced youth.

  Beyond the bailey and the height of the palisade wall Edward’s abbey was growing upwards. This eastern end reached almost to its full height. The workmen had finished for the day, the sound of hammering, sawing, creaking ropes, curses and chattering had ceased…it was always so strange when quietness descended after the torrent of noise.

  The private royal apartments and the armoury were situated here in this third, inner yard: the Great Hall, king and queen’s bedchambers and ante-rooms, the chapels and the king’s grand council chamber. Also guest apartments and the royal kitchens—Edward had ordered separate kitchens built near the Hall for he was tired of meals brought across the courtyard arriving cold and greasy, although the proximity had made little difference to the service and warmth of the food. The larger, middle bailey, adjoining to the north, was reached through an archway protected by a pair of tall, iron-studded oak doors. Oak was always used, for it was not an easy wood to burn should attack come from the outside, or fire take hold within. Would anyone dare attack the King while he resided in his new palace at Westminster? Still staring out of the window, Edith wondered if her father would so dare. Unlike Edward, she was not complacent over the consequences of Godwine’s exile. Edward seemed to think he was safe, the thing settled. But Godwine would never leave it at that.

  The outer, or first, courtyard, to the northern end of Thorney Island, accommodated the stabling, grain storage, bakery, brewery, dairy and forge, the barracks, kennels and the like. Westminster contained a whole town within this procession of courtyards, with their buildings strung together by walls, gates and archways, corridors and aisles. As impressive as anything he had seen in Normandy, so Edward claimed.

  The baby’s cries had withered to a moaning whimper; Edward gave the child to the nurse, beaming at his success. “You see! Patience and gentleness is all a child of that age requires. Patience and gentleness.”

  A no-nonsense firm hand would be more practical, Edith thought. At least the grandfather, Boulogne, had gone. Three blessed weeks now without his loud, boastful conversation and arrogant presumption. The pity that Champart and the other Normans who squirmed around Edward like piglets eager to drain the mother sow dry of her milk had not departed with him.

  And now there were more coming! Next month, or so the messenger had said, Duke William himself was to make a brief visit to England to pay respect to his great-aunt and the King. Edward was delighted, not about the Duke meeting with his mother, but because he was eager to show the progress with his abbey and the splendour of this palace—to take the Duke hunting. Edith sighed, closed her Bible and indicated that the shutters could be closed. They had argued about that also, when Edith had politely suggested that perhaps the Duke would prefer to discuss important issues of alliance and trade. Edward had ordered her to keep her ignorant opinions to herself; of course the Duke would want to hunt—chancellors and clerics were there to deal with the mundane matters of state.

  It had not occurred to Edward, who took no specific interest in politics, that this Duke of Normandy might be different, that he was not sailing to England during the vagaries of the winter weather merely to hunt deer or chase boar. Nor was he asking, as were his earls and Council, why, when so hard pressed by internal troubles within his duchy, the Duke should take time to visit England.

  The answer was obvious to all except Edward. With Godwine gone, there was a power vacuum forming within the realm. Those of Norman blood were rising in status and William desperately sought favour, wherever he might find it, so that he could further his own ambition. He also, through Emma, had a chance to make a claim for the throne after Edward’s death. That possibility had not escaped anyone’s appraisal—save, it seemed, for Edward.

  Edward was now seated beside the largest brazier, gathering the children around him. Her brother was there, Wulfnoth, innocence etched into his shining ten-year-old face. The younger children—her cousin Hakon and that wretched grandchild of Boulogne—had finally been taken from the room for their supper. At least some semblance of dignity was returning to the chamber.

  “A riddle! A riddle!” they were shrieking, bouncing in excitement.

  “A riddle?” Edward said. “I am not certain I know any riddles.”

  “You do! Oh, you do!”

  Edith walked from her window seat to another of the braziers, stood, warming her hands.

  “A creature came into my courtyard,” Edward began. “It had one eye and two ears, two feet and twelve hundred heads, a back and a belly, two hands, arms and shoulders, one neck and two sides. Say, whichever one of you can, what was this creature?” He leant back, spread his hands on
his thighs. They would never guess.

  Edith’s father had no fear for his boys, Edward would never, willingly, harm a child, but it was not Edward who held the reins of power in England at this moment. Godwine had kept a curb on the menace of rising Norman influence, until Count Eustace had—so common gossip said—ridden deliberately into Dover to stir up trouble. The boys would be safe, but would Edith? Except to cast barbed comments, Edward rarely spoke to her, barely concealed his distaste at her presence. They were lawfully bound in marriage and he had no just cause, without perjuring his soul, to set her aside as wife. Never would she contemplate taking a lover or allowing a male companion close without adequate escort, for she would not give Edward the opportunity to create lies against her dignity and innocence.

  Edward wanted her gone, though, Edith knew that as well as she knew the answer to his fool-stupid riddle.

  She glanced up, caught Robert Champart watching her from across the room. From Edward, she was, perhaps, safe, but what mischief was Champart and Duke William hatching between them?

  “What is the answer?” the eldest daughter of Edward’s personal silversmith asked. “I cannot think what it is!”

  Edward clapped his hands. “A one-eyed onion seller!” His laughter joined with that of the children.

  Pathetic and insane. Need she worry? What could Champart do to her? What could William offer or expect from England in return? Were he to have daughters who sought husbands then aye, she would be anxious. An alliance of marriage between England and Normandy…she shuddered, but the Duke was not yet married, had not solved his problem with the Pope, and his sister was safe married to Enguerrand, comte de Ponthieu.