I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  Edyth snuggled herself closer. “Perhaps Edward too needs a child.”

  Aye, or another Robert Champart to hold his hand.

  The prospect of a pleasing morning withered. On the morrow, Harold would leave for London; this day, Christmas Eve, was to be his last day with his family for several weeks. Edyth would not be coming with him to Westminster for she disliked the clamour and smell of London. Even had she journeyed to Southwark, he would see little of her or the children, for there was a rising mountain of problems to be discussed during the coming days of Council. Gryffydd ap Rhydderch had begun a campaign of raiding across the Severn river—they would need to sort that annoying bastard with more than threats of reprisal before too many months passed—and King Macbeth in Scotland was posing a problem for Siward in Northumbria. Macbeth had been a boil waiting to be lanced since he had first usurped the throne from Duncan, he and Gruoch, his scheming wife. They were a troublesome lot, the Scots and Welsh.

  And then there were the boys held in Normandy, Harold’s brother and nephew. Negotiations for their release had ground to a halt. Duke William had no intention of surrendering such useful hostages. Short of declaring war on Normandy, there was little England could do to demand their return.

  Above all else, the matter of Edward’s succession must be decided—England could not be left vulnerable. With an empty throne a free-for-all would most certainly develop, whatever the present hindrances tying the hands of ambitious men. Edward was no longer a young man and death could creep in from the shadows with no sound or warning—no one had expected Godwine to be taken so quickly from them.

  Who was there to follow Edward? Ralf de Mantes, as much a weakling as Edward. William of Normandy? Harold instantly dismissed that thought as absurd. One of the named earls? In an earlier time, perhaps, in those harsh, uncivilised days when the law was made by the sword and a man held no honour for his pledged word. Now no one person would receive the level of support required to overthrow Edward. If one earl decided to forcibly take a crown, then would the others not want also to try it for size? A bloody civil war would be the only end to that path.

  What of other outsiders? Norway? Denmark? No, they were too preoccupied with their own fight for survival to glance elsewhere.

  The possibilities drifted into Harold’s mind, dancing there much as the dust particles were shimmering in the widening shaft of sunlight streaking in a narrow spear-shaft through the shutter and across the floor. Edith had ordered Boulogne’s grandson back to Normandy, although Harold had thought to use him in exchange for Wulfnoth. Edith detested the child, and had used the general feeling against Norman blood as an excuse to be rid of him when Godwine had returned from exile. Fearing reprisal from his hand, most of the Normans had fled. What fools and cowards they were, imagining whetted blades drawn against them in every shadow! Champart, by fleeing so suddenly from London, had been responsible for starting the rumour; Edith, sending Boulogne’s grandson hard on his heels, had not calmed the fears. Would his father have taken revenge on Edward’s Norman friends? On Champart, probably, but for the rest, Harold doubted it. Godwine had not been a vindictive man, and Ralf de Mantes, with Norman blood in his veins from his father and maternal grandmother, had not been harmed or threatened, was indeed a trusted friend of Harold’s.

  Edyth was tracing a path through Harold’s chest hair with her fingernail. “What of Edmund Ironside, Æthelred’s son by his wife before Emma? Has there not yet been word of his sons’ whereabouts? As grandsons of Æthelred, they are the closest kin to Edward. Is it not time they were found and brought home?”

  The two infant sons of King Edmund, exiled from England after his death six and thirty years past. Tentative searches had been made for them when Edward had first claimed his crown, but no word of their whereabouts came back on traders’ lips, despite the offer of generous reward. Hardly surprising, as it had been no secret that Cnut had wanted them dead. What assurance was there, when Edward had first become king, that he did not intend the same fate for them? The situation was different now that Edward had no son or brother. A son of the royal line of Alfred, Ædward the Exile or his brother, both sons of Edmund, grandsons of Æthelred. There would be no disputing that claim.

  “Henry of Germany may know of something. Normandy and Flanders are shut to us, now that Edward’s French friends have scuttled like beetles beneath the stones. Nor would it be of use asking Harald Hardrada of Norway or Svein of Denmark—either would as lief find the two for themselves and carry out Cnut’s order of murder.” Harold trickled his fingers across her breast and stomach. “Council though,” he crooned, “will need find the solutions. For the immediate future, the Earl of Wessex has more personal matters to attend.”

  Part Two

  Fight for Tears

  1

  Mortemar—February 1054

  King Henry of France, realising he personally had little to gain and much to lose by continuing the war against Geoffrey Martel, comte d’Anjou, had ordered a reconciliation to be made. William of Normandy had flatly refused. Victory had been his at Alençon and Domfront, the power of the Bellême family had been incorporated into his vassalage, and Martel was on the verge of being broken, but Henry decided to dictate peace terms! William had poured scorn on the proposal and had stormed out of the French court without leave, in a vile temper. In furious retaliation, Henry of France turned about face and allied with Geoffrey against Normandy. William was not best pleased, but neither was he distraught. Henry had given an excuse for him to pursue, at last, his freedom and autonomy.

  With the levies from the north-west of France mustered at Mantes Henry entered Normandy through the region of the Évreçin, while from the north-east, with troops under the command of William’s brother Odo and Rainauld, comte de Cleremont, the Duke launched a formidable campaign of pillage, slaughter and destruction. The size of Normandy’s immediate response was unexpected. Had Henry been hoping that the landowning nobility of upper Normandy would not, when it came to it, take that last step into treason? If he had then he was to be disappointed. William had mustered a force large enough to counterattack from both the eastern and western sides of the Seine. Normandy, as a whole, had decided to shed vassalage to France.

  The February air was cold, frost whitening men’s breath into steam clouds as they huddled beneath cloaks and blankets around fires that gave out little warmth. Tree, branch, fence, barn—whatever came to hand was torn down and burnt, the many spirals of dark smoke rising to blend with the melancholy grey of a low and brooding winter cloud. Daylight at this time of year was brief; a tiresome season for fighting.

  Before Henry had so enraged him, William had no inclination to seek independence for Normandy from France, but his decision was forced. Capitulate to Henry’s dictation or become his own lord? If he could keep his nerve and the loyalty of those who followed him…the notion flourished and, as he had hoped, not in his own mind alone. During the years of rebellion he had proven himself to those men who admired his resolute determination and courage. Normandy was a young country, planted and nurtured by Viking settlers a few generations beforehand. Autonomy and audacity were in the blood of her sons, as was respect for a man’s success in battle. A man whose star was rising, bright and savage. Who showed, from the very first, a natural ability to rule and lead.

  Such a man was William. Ruthless in revenge, compassionate in forgiveness. He calculated his response to every situation calmly, and deliberately combined leniency with ferocity. His temper was more dangerous than a mid-winter storm, but he was also fair in judgement and generous to those who served him loyally. The lords of Normandy had no respect for a man who altered allegiance on the whim of a cold-blowing wind, even if that man was the King of France Capable men such as Roger de Montgomery, Hugh de Gourney, Ralph de Tosny and Robert, comte d’Eu, elected to stand firm behind their duke. With them ranged Walter Gifford, William fitz Osbern, Roger de Mortemar and William de Waren
ne. Duke William they would serve and no other.

  William’s tent was little warmer than the winter air outside, despite several braziers and a scatter of furs on the floor. The Duke barely noticed the cold—what mattered chilled fingers and chilblained toes when tomorrow all of Normandy could be lost to him? He stood at the central table, hands spread over the map unrolled before him, concentrating on the inked lines that depicted Normandy, his mind on what was happening to the other side of that squiggled emblem that represented the river Seine, where Robert d’Eu was leading his troops against the approaching western attack under the French King’s brother.

  Murmuring quietly among themselves and rubbing surreptitiously at frozen hands, his noble lords and officers watched his intense stillness. They would have been surprised to have been privy to his thoughts at that moment.

  A messenger had arrived an hour after dawn, bearing a letter from the Duchess Mathilda. At first William had been disappointed for he was desperately awaiting an encouraging word from d’Eu; however, a flicker of contentment had passed over his expression as his private clerk had read his wife’s words to him. He had a daughter, of good weight and health, fair-haired and blue-eyed. Agatha, she was to be called.

  He was thinking, not of battles and warfare, but of his daughter. He would enjoy having a little girl to curl her fingers around his and smile and gurgle at him. Who would grow to love and respect him as a daughter ought adore her father. He had a son, but he did not much like Robert. An ugly, loathsome child, continuously mewling and puking. Mathilda doted on the boy; perhaps now she also had a daughter he would not be so frivolously cosseted. William looked forward to watching her grow into a woman as beautiful as his own mother had been; counts or dukes or kings would seek her hand, a strategic alliance would be formed…but not if Normandy lost everything to Henry of France, if all was lost on the opposite side of the Seine, where the armies would be meeting somewhere near Mortemar.

  If Normandy fell Mathilda would return to her father in Flanders. The children would be safe under his protection. No doubt she would find herself another husband…William’s clenched fist thundered down on to the map. “I will not give ground to the whims of bloody France!” he roared. “Normandy is mine—as it is yours. Does Henry think we are feared of him? Does he think we are going to run squealing and whimpering from the poxed whoresons of his army?”

  Enthusiastically they echoed his certainty, his courage, William fitz Osbern, Roger de Montgomery…the leather hanging covering the tent entrance flapped backwards as an officer of the guard stepped through, ushering a grime-faced messenger before him. The men within the tent turned as one to stare. The messenger bore the emblem of Robert d’Eu on his shoulder.

  For a long moment no one spoke, moved, or barely drew breath.

  William could feel his body trembling, a myriad diffuse thoughts tumbling and churning through his mind. He closed his eyes in a swift prayer, stepped forward, his hand stretching out to take the roll of parchment from the messenger’s hand. If they noticed it shook, he did not care…he took it, gazed at the seal of Robert, comte d’Eu. His fingers snapped the wax seal. He stared at the dull black ink scrambling across the parchment in mystical loops, circles and lines. For this one moment William wished that he had been taught to read, to see for himself what had happened those few miles away across the river at Mortemar…

  “Sir?” The cleric was there at his side, his hand reaching to take the letter. William gave it to him and turned abruptly on his heel, stalked to the far side of the tent, poured himself wine, drank it in one gulp.

  The cleric read hurriedly, a smile touching the edge of his lips, broadening to a grin and a rousing shout of delight. “My Lord Duke! Sir! Mortemar is won! Henry’s brother has fled, his troops slaughtered or dispersed. Guy de Ponthieu is captured.”

  “And that is not all!” Ralph de Tosny was ducking through the opening behind the messenger, the edge of his cloak glistening from frost, his breath coming fast as if he had been running. “Henry has received word of the defeat before us—he is withdrawing.” Ralph crossed the tent in a few brief strides and knelt before his duke. “You have won victory over France, my Lord!”

  A cheer erupted from those within the tent, except from William. He again closed his eyes in prayer, released the breath that he had not realised he had been holding. Opening his eyes, he allowed a smile of satisfaction to slide over his clean-shaven face. He would initiate a reconciliation with Henry, with terms advantageous to himself and those who had shown their loyalty.

  He held out his hand to de Tosny, who touched his lips to the ducal ring. The fighting would not be over, for there would always be someone who wanted something from the Duke and no doubt Henry himself, once his wounds were licked, would try again to destroy Normandy’s young duke.

  William tossed back his head and laughed. He could try, but by God, he would not succeed!

  2

  York

  In his earl’s palace in York, the capital of the North, Siward, Earl of Northumbria, lay bed-bound, the curtaining pulled close on the side of the bed where the cold of a north-east wind persisted in breaching the shuttered windows. He had sustained a wound to his knee at the battle of Dunsinane fighting against that whore-poxed Macbeth of Scotland, a wound that had festered. He was dying, and had no son of age to follow him as earl, for his eldest had been slain at that same fight, an axe taking his head from his shoulders in one swift and terrible blow. Victory. Huh, what price victory? So Macbeth was defeated and fled into the northern isles, Malcolm, Duncan’s son, was returned with England’s aid as king of that cursed country, but for Siward Scotland was most certainly cursed.

  There was no one to follow him now. Waltheof, son of his second wife, was too young, a four-year-old child. There was no one else of Siward’s blood to take over the care of these desolate but beautiful moorlands of laughing rivers, swirling hill mist and singing wind.

  York had been an important city long before the Vikings had taken it for their own. Roman armies had once lived here within its stone defences. The incoming English Saxons had used its waterways for sea trade several hundred years before the Norse adopted the city, named it Jorvik and expanded it into the second-largest settlement in all England.

  To the head of the King’s Highway in Conig Street, one of the few York roads to retain its Saxon name, Earl Siward had built his stronghold, from where he had ruled for almost forty years.

  Of Viking birth, Cnut had appointed him as guardian of the volatile North—as Godwine had been selected for the South. He had been the right man, had bridged the gap between the established wealth of the South and the independent freedom of the North, a vast, rolling area of wild land that had once, not so long ago, been a kingdom in its own right, with its unique identity, where a dialect that was peppered with Scandinavian sound changes and meaning was unintelligible to many Southerners.

  Siward breathed a long sigh. It would not be many more days before God sent his warrior angels to escort an old soldier up into heaven. His wife sat close beside the bed, her head bent over a tangle that had knotted the thread of her drop spindle. She looked up at the sound of his sigh and set her spinning aside. There was no disgust in her face at the smell of wasting flesh, no reluctance to be near or to touch her lord. She was a young woman in the full-blossomed beauty of youth and Siward she loved beyond life itself. She rinsed a linen cloth in a bowl of rose-petal water and wiped his face.

  Catching her hand clumsily within his own, Siward stopped her. “You are to go with our son to Edward when I am gone. He will see you safe kept.”

  “Hush, husband, you may yet become well.”

  Movement was difficult for his body was swollen and contorted, but Siward lifted his hand to caress her cheek. “I am for God, my dear-heart. I will be happy to meet him when I am certain that you and Waltheof will come to no harm. Take care of the boy, for he must become earl one day wh
en he is grown. Tell Edward this, that Siward, who has served with all faith, would see his son as protector of the North.”

  Who would be earl after him? Most likely Ælfgar would be moved from East Anglia, Leofric’s sour-tempered son of a cur. One of Godwine’s brood would be the only alternative—but as fair-minded as was Earl Harold, that clan held over-much ambition for England already. Ah, it was not his problem to worry on. The fate of Northumbria lay in the hand of God, as did his own.

  “I would be dressed in my armour when the time draws near, and stood on my feet,” he said. “I would meet my God as a warrior ought, not lying idle abed. And after, I would be taken to the church of my founding, at Saint Olafs to the north-west wall of this dear city. Perhaps there I shall be remembered for some short while.”

  “None shall forget you, my Lord.”

  Siward patted her hand. Let her believe it so if she chose. Few, save for those who had loved them, remembered the dead once they had passed on.

  The woman struggled in vain to contain her tears. She could not face life without his gentleness, had already decided that Waltheof would indeed go to the King, but not she. She would be going with her lord, for it was too bitter a thing to remain without him. And it would be a bitter thing for this ancient kingdom of Northumbria to lose such a man.

  Siward died as he had asked, dressed in his armour and standing on his feet, as the first snows of winter fell with a quiet hush over the night-darkened moors. Within a day his wife followed him, the blood let from her wrists after the four-year-old boy had been set within the arms of his nurse, surrounded by the protection of an armed escort and sent south, to Westminster.