I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  “Get you to bed,” he said, trundling her in that direction. “I think I will go up to the castle, enquire whether any word has come from Ædward. When I confirmed his safe conduct on our outward journey last November, I gave him ’til the twelfth day of April to meet with us here in St. Omer. If he is coming, he has but the morrow to arrive. I would be back in England before Easter.”

  “Will he come, do you think?” Edyth asked, her hand going to unfasten her veil. She folded the linen neatly, placing hairpins safely in her jewel casket, began unbraiding her hair. “It has taken nigh on two years of searching throughout Hungary to find him—all that many more to remember him in the first place. Why would he want to bother with England now? England has not been bothered with him.”

  “He will come because Hungary is in the midst of new political upheaval. Where there is a change in leader, there is also a change of attitude towards those seeking asylum. Ædward was found, last summer, because King Andrew of Hungary wanted him to be found—and for that reason alone, Ædward the Exile must leave. If he cherishes his life and that of his family, that is.”

  Edyth was not convinced, but said nothing. “If he does not come, will you wait?”

  “A few days only. Like you, my Willow-bud, I have taken much pleasure in our pilgrimage travels, but I now desire to return to my own home. That chestnut mare will be foaling soon, I am eager to see if she bears as good an offspring as did her mother.”

  Edyth flashed him a smile. She knew he would be content to remain here as an honoured guest, but he understood that her heart lay within the comfort of their manor, overlooking the green peace of the valley of the river Lea, that she wanted to go home.

  ***

  Harold lay abed, dozing, reluctant to be up and about the new day. Edyth was already up, and gone to see to the children’s dressing and eating of breakfast. A rapping on the door startled Harold awake; he sat up quickly, rubbed at his nose and chin. Bleary-eyed and mildly disorientated, he stumbled towards the latch, swung the door open. Beyond stood a thin man of medium height, his hair and beard grey-grizzled, with eyes of a dark, slate grey. Beside him was a woman, younger, but also thin. Their dress, although not shabby, was more practical than ostentatious. Harold took them to be folk of a middle merchant rank.

  Nervously, the man licked at his lips. There was sweat on his brow. He extended his hand, the palm up, and spoke in German. “You are the Earl Harold?”

  The woman had already assessed Harold’s appearance, taking in his stance, height and build, the weave of the tunic thrown hurriedly over his nakedness when he had come to answer the door. She nodded, once, as if satisfied with what she saw. “You are much as we expected you to be.”

  Harold raised an eyebrow and gestured with his hand for them to enter.

  “It is a fine place, this abbey,” the stranger said. “My wife and children are delighted with our accommodation, although it is somewhat close to the piggeries. We did not often see such fine building in Hungary.”

  The muzziness of sleep slipped from Harold’s brain and a grin of delight slid across his face. He marched back to the man, took his hand and pumped it in vigorous welcome. “Ædward? You are Ædward the Exile? It is good to meet you, Sir! And you, my dear lady, must be Agatha! Come, sit, sit, make yourselves comfortable.”

  Harold served wine, then asked, candidly, “You will come to England, Sir? You must, for there is no one else suitable to follow on to the throne.”

  Ædward cast a tentative smile at his host. As he had expected from all that he had gleaned of this man during the long weeks of travelling from Hungary through Germany to St. Omer, the Earl of Wessex was a likeable man. “I have heard much of your courage and strength, Harold Godwinesson,” he confided. “I understand that your patience and diplomacy is much admired and that you are well known and liked—whereas I…” He paused. “Whereas I am unknown beyond name and status. Ædward. An exile. What else do you know of me beyond those two limited facts, Earl Harold? Yes, I am prepared to go to England with you—else I would not have come all this way. I admit that I am flattered that the Council should have so much faith in me—but it has taken a long time for England to remember me.” He looked up at Harold with wide, saddened eyes. “More than thirty years.”

  Harold took time to pour himself wine. Aye, England was adept at forgetting her born sons: this haggard man; Edward himself for all those years; his own brother and nephew still held hostage in Normandy with no diplomatic hope of securing their return. He seated himself opposite his two guests. When the Council had decided to try to find the Exile, they had never considered Ædward’s attitude to it, assuming from the start that he would be all too eager to return to the land of his birth, would accept without question the hero’s welcome and status of ætheling. Nor had they considered the toll that the passing of years might set upon a man’s shoulders. Ædward was not old, but neither was he young. His shoulders stooped and his body, without doubt, was frail.

  Seeing his furrowed brow and following the obvious thoughts, Agatha spoke up: “For the first few years of exile my husband was too young to understand anything except the urgent need to flee. It is hard for a small child to watch the shadows in case a dagger blade should be hidden there. He had no settled home, no security, but travelled from court to court, from one place of safety to another. Now England has sudden need of him. He has a wife and family now, contentment and security. Why should we give up all we have to return, on the whim of your Council and your childless king, to a land that neither of us knows or cares for and that speaks a tongue that we do not understand?”

  Harold answered her just as bluntly, speaking also in German. “Because you will want for nothing in England. You and your children will live within the King’s court. Your settlement beside the collection of hovels that is Budapest could never be as comfortable as that. Your children’s future never as secure—”

  “I have your word that Edgar will become ætheling after me?” Ædward interrupted. “And that suitable marriages for my daughters are guaranteed?”

  Harold nodded.

  “I must have proof,” Ædward snapped.

  Harold gestured agreement with his palm open. “It is agreed. I brought with me from England written documents signed by the King to contract it so. It is Edward’s own wish that you follow him, that you are returned to your home and your family.”

  At that Ædward appeared satisfied.

  “What if the Council of England decides against my husband?” Agatha asked. “A king must, after all, be elected by common agreement. When those Englishmen of the Witan meet with Ædward they may decide they do not want him after all. What of my son then?”

  Uncertain whether he liked this woman for her forthrightness, or whether she was just too blunt, Harold answered with a laugh, although there was a slight hesitancy in the sound. “We have gone to great expense and trouble to locate you, to bring you even this far. There is no one suitable to follow Edward. The agreement will not change.”

  Ædward had half finished his wine. A small round table stood beside the hearth bench; he leaned forward to set his goblet down, missed the edge and the thing tumbled, splashing wine over his legs and lap. Harold leapt to his feet, but Agatha was there before him, patting at the mess, Ædward profusely apologising.

  “Forgive my clumsiness, I did not watch what I was doing.”

  “’Tis no matter,” Harold responded. “Here, let me fetch you more wine.” He retrieved the goblet, went to refill it. He was glad he had his back to the room when Agatha suddenly spoke again: Why do you support the seeking of my husband? Have you no ambition for a crown?” The question was candid and totally unexpected.

  “Me? King?” Harold spluttered. “My grandfather was a thegn turned pirate! My connection with the royal line is at best dubious and only through the distaff line.”

  Ædward smiled at that, holding out his hand for
the refilled goblet. “The Duke of Normandy’s grandfather was a tanner, yet he appears to be doing well enough for himself.”

  “Normandy has different laws and customs from those of England.” Harold’s answer was terse. He? King? He had never thought on it. By God, if it were the duty and responsibility alone that counted for kingship, then he already possessed the title! It was he, Harold, as senior earl, who all but ruled England. He saw that the laws were made and obeyed; he led the army into war, not Edward. He shook his head, thrust that brief flicker of a potentially treasonous thought aside, said with conviction, “You are the man we want, Sir, for you are the son of Edmund Ironside. Not I.”

  “For my sins, Earl Harold, that, indeed, I am. But answer me this. What if I should die before Edward and he dies before my son comes of age? Who will become king of England then, eh?”

  Harold could only shrug.

  Agatha opened the door, threaded her arm through her husband’s. “We shall be ready to leave for England as and when you wish.”

  Listening to the sound of their footsteps diminishing outside, Harold thoughtfully nursed the goblet between his hands. There had been something strange about Ædward, something that went beyond the unexpected ageing of a man who was only a matter of three or so years older than himself.

  The Lady Agatha, too, was a puzzle. Forthright with her views, yet like a cat walking on hot bricks. Perhaps it was nothing more than their trepidation at returning after so long to England where, despite the assurances of agreement, nothing was, or ever could be, unbreakably guaranteed.

  11

  Westminster

  Tostig stripped off his gloves as he entered the Queen’s chamber, unfastened his cloak and gave that, too, to a servant. Shivered and headed for the fire. April and the welcoming of spring? Sleet was falling and if the easterly wind were to shift more to the north there would be a return of the snow that had huddled most of England within doors since mid February.

  “So he has arrived?” Edith asked, barely masking her indifference, only briefly glancing up from the writing of a letter to her mother. The Countess remained at Bosham for most of the year—and who could blame her? The roads were rutted and mired, the distance tedious and uncomfortable. Edith considered it her duty to write every so often, to enquire after her health and tell of Edward’s and her own.

  “London stinks,” Tostig complained. The streets are running with sewage and there are drowned rats everywhere. Edward was wise to build this palace a few miles from the city. There will be plague before long, mark my word.” He clicked his fingers at a servant to bring a chair nearer the hearth. “Aye, Ædward and his family are in London, comfortably accommodated in the house Edward has given them. Once they have rested and settled, they will come to the palace.” He picked at some dirt beneath his fingernail. “If you think that is still a wise idea.”

  Setting her quill into its stand, Edith half turned to face him. “And why would I not?” she questioned, alert to what he was not saying.

  The dirt removed, Tostig inspected the nails on his other hand. Cleanliness of the hands was essential. You could judge a man’s quality by his nails. “Ædward, our returned exile,” he casually informed his sister, “is blind—well, as near as may be.”

  Edith stared at him as if he had spoken in an incomprehensible language.

  “Harold told me and then I witnessed it for myself.” Tostig continued, recrossing his legs and leaning back in the chair. Ædward’s nails had been filthy; Tostig had clasped his lower arm and wrist in greeting, had not fancied putting his palm against that clammy, dirtied one. “Our brother suspected something was wrong while in St. Omer—discovered it for certain during the sea crossing. Which means, of course, that we do have a problem. A man cannot be deemed kingworthy if he has no sight.”

  Edith digested the news, was silent for two whole minutes. “And why, then,” she asked, “was this not mentioned before we went to all the bother of bringing him to England?”

  “Why indeed? May I suggest, perhaps, because the Lady Agatha is desperate for better prospects than a Hungarian peasant’s hovel for her son and two daughters?”

  Edith rose, wandered around the room, her fingers linked, tapping against her lips as she thought, her astute mind calculating. “You imply that Agatha deliberately disguised her husband’s affliction?”

  Tostig nodded. “So Harold does believe. Would you have not done the same?”

  Edith ceased her pacing and resettled herself at the writing desk. What would she have done? Proclaimed the truth and forsaken all hope of a secure future? A wry smile twisted one side of her mouth upwards. “Most certainly, had I a son with a good chance of becoming king.” She fluttered her fingers at the two servants, bidding them be gone from the room, wrote another two sentences to her mother. She also knew what she would be willing to do next and was mildly surprised at discerning, for perhaps the first time in her life, the ruthless streak that pierced her. Surprised, but not shocked. The need for self-preservation had hardened her more with every passing year.

  Alone with her brother, with no ear to overhear and therefore no mischievous tongue to wag, she said in a lowered, conspiring tone, “We must ensure that the lady’s hopes for her son are not disappointed. The boy must be declared ætheling.”

  “Which he cannot if his father is denied the title.” Tostig’s reply was testy, stating the obvious.

  Edith completed a last sentence, signed her name, Ædith Reginae with a flourish and sprinkled fine sand over the parchment to dry the ink.

  “Le roi est mort, vive le roi. There is no one else. If there is no father to become ætheling, then the child will become kingworthy.”

  Pinching his moustache and upper lip between thumb and index finger, Tostig sat quiet for a long moment. Then he said guardedly, “But loss of sight is not life threatening, sister.”

  “Is it not, brother? You are wrong. In certain circumstances—if, say, a suggestion is whispered in the right ear, such an affliction can be deadly.” She fingered the gold crucifix at her throat, wondering at her own calmness. “We must ensure that Edward does not meet with his nephew. He has become a sentimental fool of late.” Her words came slowly as the plan that had lodged in her mind became clearer. “You said yourself there will be plague in London—Edward can be easily persuaded to stay away and we can use the same excuse to keep Ædward within the city walls. For as long as it takes.”

  Tostig frowned and slumped deeper into his chair, as if shrinking away from the implications. “I am not sure that I like what I think you are suggesting.”

  Edith lifted her head, defiant as always when her mind was set. “Nor do I much like the prospect of losing my crown after Edward has gone. Of not having the security of a son.” She walked to her brother’s side, laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Edgar is a child, too young to rule should Edward die within the next few years.” Her fingers gripped tighter. “Edward has become most fond of you, Tostig. I would suggest that you nurture that friendship.”

  Tostig jerked his shoulder away from her touch. “He fawns over me, patting and petting me like a favoured hound. I hate it.”

  “Hate Edward as much as you like, Tostig. But would the title of regent not come as a good reward? A fair exchange for a little tolerance and the implanting of a delicate suggestion to a desperate wife.”

  Tostig could hardly believe he had truly grasped his sister’s meaning. Truth and fear of God had always been his mainstay, but so far, where had that got him? Always his elder brothers had received the accolades, the kudos. What was there for him? Northumbria! That bloody, godforsaken wilderness! He could be as good as—better than—Harold were he only given the chance to prove it. He said quietly, afraid to put thoughts into words, lest once spoken they could not be reclaimed, “You mean murder?”

  Indulgently, Edith smiled. “No, my dear. I mean ensuring a fretful mother sees to i
t that her son will be chosen as ætheling.”

  12

  Falaise

  Judith, helping to tidy away the mess that always accumulated with a birth, bundled soiled linen into the arms of a servant and glanced with a mixture of adoration and jealousy at her sister’s new son. After all these years of marriage to Tostig Godwinesson, Judith’s womb had never quickened. She was barren, A fact she could normally accept with equanimity, but at times like this, when the cry of the new-born tugged at her emotions, it was a fact that carried much pain. She was a good woman, Judith, would have made just as good a mother as her sister Mathilda, Duchess of Normandy, She sighed, gathered the last of the linen and piled it atop the servant’s already cumbersome burden, giving instruction that it was to be taken immediately to be laundered, lest the stains became immovable.

  The birthing had been an easy one, over within two hours, but then Mathilda, for all her lack of height, had wide hips and three previous children. Only by chance was Judith still here at Falaise to be of assistance, for a month already had she and Tostig been guests of her sister’s husband at this castle where William had been born. Falaise was the town where his mother had lived with her father the tanner; where Duke Robert had first set eyes on her.

  They would have returned to England—to Tostig’s earldom of Northumbria—had travel to the northern coast of Normandy been safe. But William was once again at odds with Henry of France, the two men locked in bull-horned determination to be rid of each other, Henry had entered Normandy from the west, two weeks past, as a hot July smouldered into August and was busy making his presence known by ravaging and burning all in his path, pushing the destruction northwards towards Bayeux and Caen. William, intent on his wife’s confinement, appeared unconcerned by the outrage. He contented himself with summoning his forces to muster at Falaise and waited for the birth of his son. And for Henry to make a mistake.