I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

Harold laid a placating hand on Hakon’s arm and said, with sorrow. “It was not of my doing that you came to be a hostage Hakon. The events of 1053 were beyond our control. Everything was chaos, we were tossed hither and thither like autumn leaves torn from their branch by a gale, swirled high then abandoned once the storm was over.”

  “Aye,” Hakon snorted, shrugging off Harold’s touch, “and no one came to sweep the remains into a tidy pile. The household left the detritus to rot in the courtyard.”

  Fighting his inclination to walk away from the youth, Harold smothered his ire. The lad was hurting, confused and, aye, even though he had been well treated, angry at being abandoned to the mercy of Normandy. What else could Harold expect? It occurred to him that in this, too, Hakon was much like his father, who had been so given to unreasonable outbursts. But then, unlike his father, Hakon had just cause.

  “You undervalue yourself, lad.” Harold commented, calling on all his reserves of patience. “My mother, your grandmother, has one of the finest gardens that I have had the privilege to wander in. Her roses smell sweet in summer, the bees swarm to the herbs and flowers. To create such beauty she enriches the soil with compost made from fallen leaves. It is a fact, my lad, that what may be discarded by one is highly prized by another.” Harold met Hakon’s eyes. Had the lad understood his metaphor?

  To his delight, Hakon relented; his shoulders sagged, his head with its jutting chin and blazing eyes lowered, the defiance gone.

  Harold held out his hand as an offering of peace and friendship. “It was not my fault, Hakon, that you were sent here, but it is my fault that you have been left mouldering for so long. I am here to rectify that. For you, and for my brother.” He glanced again at William, attracting Hakon’s attention to the interest the Duke was taking in their contretemps. “I would not wish the Bastard to achieve his intention of alienating kindred from kindred.”

  Hakon immediately understood, regretted his churlishness. Slowly he took his uncle’s hand. Found suddenly a burst of pleasure at having contact with someone on his own side, someone, alone in this entire duchy, on whom he could count. At last a friend for the sake of friendship alone. The lad attempted a tentative smile. He would never oblige William the Bastard. “Nor I, Uncle, most certainly, nor I.” Was rewarded by Harold’s wider grin and a sudden fond embrace.

  Releasing Hakon, but keeping hold of his arms, Harold said solemnly, “You will be returning with me into England, that I promise.”

  “Returning? What, tired of us already?” the conceited voice boomed loud behind them, a plump hand descending on to Harold’s shoulder, remaining clamped there, unwelcome but immovable. Odo, Bishop of Bayeux. Harold gritted his teeth.

  With a guffaw that held more malice than jest, Odo announced scathingly, “You will not be returning anywhere these next few days I fancy, my dear Earl, not with this wind and rain. We’re in for a storm, I reckon. Besides—the Duke expects you to make merry with us. I expect it.” His small eyes—pig-like eyes, Harold thought—bored into Hakon’s a moment, then flickered to Harold. His head nodded once to emphasise his point, then he walked away.

  “As I said,” Hakon remarked drily, “not all prisons have metal grilles and bolted doors.”

  “Ah, but I am no prisoner!” Harold objected.

  Hakon shrugged. “Are you not? Try leaving.”

  ***

  During the next few days Harold forced his nephew’s warning from his mind, but the doubt had been planted. On how many occasions had Harold implied he was considering leaving Normandy? How many times, in return, had William—or Duchess Mathilda with her smiling eyes and fluttering lashes—persuaded him to stay a while longer? Unease lay heavy in Harold’s stomach. On reflection, he realised the suspicion had been there from the very first, but had been lulled by the flattery and friendship of the Duke and his lady. Why had William been so intent on rescuing him, so urgently, from Guy de Ponthieu? Because, as he had indicated, he would tolerate no form of disobedience from his sworn vassals? Harold had believed the claim then, believed it, in part, still, for the Duke had, most assuredly, been angry at the humiliation Harold had suffered. It would not do for one country at will to imprison visiting dignitaries for ransom. No trade, no alliance—no outward semblance of trust—would coexist between one realm and another.

  Yet, had William realised the potential of holding such a prestigious hostage for himself? If Guy de Ponthieu could exact ransom, then so, too, could the Duke of Normandy. Perhaps not a monetary one, but something more valuable to an ambitious man. If holding a nephew and youngest brother had, for all these years, served a purpose for William, how much more useful would a king’s most trusted earl be?

  This visit of Harold’s had no diplomatic motive, no treaty with England or Edward to discuss, yet William had welcomed Harold to court as if he were a long-lost brother. Why? Once roused, suspicion was difficult to eradicate, especially when the evidence began to emerge with sudden and startling clarity.

  Friday, a day of obligatory fasting, was nearly completed. Once the final prayers of the Evening Mass had been intoned in the distinctly damp and cold cavern of Bayeux Cathedral, the deprivations of the day could be relaxed. Before making his way to the cathedral, Harold had tried something that he had hoped would send this gnawing fear scuttling back into the shadows. He had ordered a horse saddled and, riding alone save for one servant, had gone out beneath the gate of the Bishop’s palace. No one had stopped him, no guard had barred his way. Through the narrow streets of Bayeux he had ridden at a sedate walk, the flare of the servant’s torch flickering in the buffeting wind and with each hiss of rain that scorched the burning resin. The town’s gates were, of course, barred once night had come. Harold had demanded they be opened for him. The watch had stamped to attention, but made no move to lift the heavy wooden bars.

  “I need to leave immediately,” Harold had said. “I demand you allow me exit.”

  The guard had looked uneasily from one man to another; relief appeared on their faces when an officer stepped from the guardroom.

  “My Lord forgive me, but I cannot open these doors at this hour of the night without express command from my duke or his brother the Bishop.”

  “But I am Earl Harold of Wessex, England.”

  “I cannot, sir. Fetch word from the Duke, then I shall be glad to oblige.”

  Furious, Harold had returned to the cathedral, all the while telling himself that the watch were indeed being reasonable. Once the gates to a town were secured, rarely were they opened.

  Duke William’s family knelt in prayer to the fore of the congregation: the Duchess, surrounded by her brood of children—the boys, Robert, Richard and William, and the eldest daughter Agatha, her face rapt in the joy of prayer.

  Harold watched her discreetly throughout the monotonous service. A child of ten years, round-faced like her father, short and plump like her mother, serious-minded with a shy smile and a delightful laugh. This very morning William had offered her as wife to Harold.

  “You are among the bravest of my knights, I would have you for a much higher status, I would have you for son.”

  Why? had been Harold’s immediate thought. Why are you so eager to bind me to your side?

  “You honour me, Sir,” he had answered, chiding himself for the uncharitable scepticism and attempting to think quickly of a suitable answer. “I have commitments to a hand-fast woman in England. A marriage such as you suggest must needs be considered with care, not answered on the spur of a moment.”

  “You have until Sunday,” William had said, forcibly, which detracted somewhat from his air of good humour. Beneath the congeniality lay something darker, more sinister. Harold had not heard it then, but he could now. Now that he was certain he had confirmed Hakon’s warning. Heard it as clear as the singing of the monks. He was held prisoner to William’s whim.

  What did he want from Harold? Not friendship alone,
not from a man who was just an earl, albeit an earl who held the ear of a king. In truth, Harold was flattered by the unexpected—and uncourted—offer of marriage. To be united with the Duke of Normandy would bring much to the House of Godwine. Edith, Queen of England, Harold allied with Normandy—so much could be achieved…but at what price? Did Harold, the most powerful man in all England below the King, want to be chained to this arrogant Duke of Normandy? A man concerned with naught save the promotion of his own ambition? And then there was Edyth, dear, sweet, gentle Edyth, and the children, Gunnhild and Algytha, cherry-faced girls, bubbling with laughter like a brook gurgling beneath the summer sun; Edmund, Magnus, young Ulf and Goddwin. Ah, and Goddwin. Jealous, fiercely loving, loyal Goddwin, who adored his mother beyond all life and who mistrusted his father for what must, one day, occur.

  How would my son, my heart, my pride, welcome the daughter of Duke William as stepmother? Harold almost laughed aloud at the thought of the obvious, none too complimentary answer.

  By chance, he found himself beside Agatha as the royal party stepped from the cathedral into the incessant rain. Harold gallantly offered his arm and lifted the drape of his cloak around her shoulders. “Allow me to escort you, my Lady.”

  Agatha accepted Harold’s huge, sheltering presence with relief. The roar of the wind as it shrieked through the narrow streets of the town, tearing at roof tiles and window shutters, toppling anything not properly secured, frightened her. It seemed as if the devil himself were riding across Normandy, crying out for the lost souls of the dead to join him. And Harold was a good, kindly man. She could not imagine the Earl of Wessex erupting with uncontrolled bile at some inconsequential matter, as did her father all too frequently. Shy Agatha dreaded the approach of Christmas with its enforced frivolity, knowing full well that her father would soon be quarrelling with her eldest brother and vociferously berating men and women for their bawdy behaviour.

  Often of late Agatha wished that she could remain for ever within the peaceful confines of a nunnery. Oh, the blessed joy of hearing naught but the voice of God for the rest of her days!

  “In English.” Harold said to her as they walked, his voice pitched loud to rise above the pummelling wind, “your naming would be Ælfgyva.”

  Politely, Agatha smiled at him, struggling with the strange pronunciation. English was a difficult language, uncultured, her father so often said, a tongue of simpletons. Harold was no simpleton, but Agatha knew instinctively how her father despised all but the noblest Normans.

  “I think I had best remain Agatha,” she answered after several failed attempts at Ælfgyva. “Your English is beyond me.”

  “You have no desire to learn my tongue, then?”

  Agatha laughed at that. “Oh, no, my Lord. Of what use would English be to me?”

  Perhaps you may marry an Englishman.”

  Agatha halted in mid-stride, so unexpected was his remark—so worrying. Her face paled. “No, Sir, I have no desire to marry, I wish to make my vows as a nun.”

  Harold stopped also. Suddenly he felt sorry for the girl. “I doubt that is what your father desires for you, lass. His decision is the one you must follow.”

  “My mother will speak for me, I am sure,” Agatha raised her head, breathing courage and fortitude into her lungs, continued walking. Her mother would not marry her to a man against her will. Would not. Surely?

  “Of course she will,” Harold responded, and then, as if he were jesting, asked casually, “but would you not consider me as a potential husband?”

  Her reply was immediate and, in its naïveté, answered the mud-stirred doubts that had chased Harold so doggedly these past few days. “I regret that my father would never consider a marriage with you, my Lord. You represent too much of a potential obstruction to his ambition.”

  Harold pressed his lips together. Had she realised what she had said? He doubted it. She was a child, had, in her innocence, repeated something that she had heard fall from either her mother’s or father’s own lips.

  Entering Bishop Odo’s imposing Hall, Harold stood aside, allowing the girl to go ahead of him. Blushing, she thanked him for his escort, then said, very quickly and in a whisper, “But if I had to marry, then I would surely choose you.” And she was gone.

  Harold watched her go, raindrops falling from her cloak as a scatter of diamonds. She was a child, only three years older than his own youngest daughter, Gunnhild. How could he contemplate marriage with one so young? Ah, but the political advantages could be so great, and the personal ones also. The more intimate formalities of union would have to wait, allowing time for Edyth to grow accustomed to the presence of a formal wife—perhaps she would even look upon the girl as another daughter? Watching Agatha scamper through a far door to the sanctuary of the women’s quarters, how could he think of her as anything more?

  If he had to marry for convenience—and one day he would have to—he could do worse than consider William’s daughter, but something held him back: this growing sense of unease, like the current of a river trapped beneath the ice-bound freeze of winter. Temptingly placid on the surface, so dangerous below.

  26

  Bayeux

  The Duchess Mathilda was certain that she was carrying another child. Her second flux had been due over a week past and her breasts were beginning to tingle. She shut her eyes. It had surely been an eternity since she had risen close after dawn! The luxury of bed and sleep beckoned.

  With no knock or pause the door to the bed-chamber opened, William’s overpowering presence dispelling the quiet atmosphere of the dim-lit chamber. He tossed his cloak on to the bed, sat, lifted his foot for his body servant to remove his boots, then gruffly told the boy to leave.

  “And you.” He indicated with a jerk of his head that his wife’s three women were to go. They bobbed curtsies and hurried out, William slammed the door behind them.

  Mathilda, disguising her exhaustion, formed a smile for her lord, rose gracefully from her stool and walked over to him, began unbuckling the leather straps of his tunic. At six and thirty years he remained a well-muscled man, his hair with only the merest hint of grey at his temples. In all the years of their marriage William had not once fallen ill, not to disease or injury. If his head ached, he but worked harder to drive it from him. If tiredness attempted to dull his mind, he concentrated more on whatever it was that required doing. He was not a man who would admit to frailties, or indulge in the more frivolous areas of life. Unlike Earl Harold, who enjoyed books, women’s chatter, or the attention of over-excited children. He was six years older than William, but his equal in untapped energy. If silver flecked Harold’s hair, then it did not show so clearly against his colouring. His mouth was fuller than William’s, more likely to curve into a smile, break into outright laughter. His eyes, too. Where William’s brooded, dark and ever watchful, Harold’s sparkled bright with amusement and merrymaking.

  Mathilda tried to concentrate on helping her husband undress. She knew she ought not think so much of Earl Harold; she fully realised the extent of her fortune. She loved William; he had given her all any woman could expect from marriage, especially the children. How she loved her children! Ought she tell him of her suspicions that she was breeding again? Pas maintenant, she would wait until later. For all that, why did she so often think of Harold?

  “Has the Earl come to any decision regarding our daughter, my Lord?” she asked, kneeling down to remove his hose. Her chemise was of fine linen. Beneath, the silhouette of her breasts was clear and defined. William found himself looking at their enticing shape.

  “He has not said, but sans doute, he will agree to take Agatha. He begins to grow impatient, is becoming suspicious of our generosity. I do not think I can delay his return to England much longer.” He reached out a hand to cup Mathilda’s breast, feeling his manhood quicken as the seductive heaviness settled into his palm.

  Keeping Harold here in Normand
y was becoming a problem, but perhaps it no longer mattered. William had learnt all he could of the man, or at least so he thought. That Harold was eloquent, easygoing and easily persuaded was evident. A fine horseman and huntsman, skilled in the use of arms, he possessed a flair for fighting. But he was complacently agreeable to other men’s suggestions. Did not, William believed, have that especial quality of leadership that bound a soldier to his lord’s battle standard. The Earl was too ready to discuss options and seek advice before making a decision. That was not the way to rule: a leader of worth must weigh the odds, certainly, but quickly and forthrightly, must never tolerate disobedience or question. Ah, but all these Englishmen were the same! Weak-willed, opting for the easy choice; more content to lie in the sun or play games with children than sweat on the battlefield.

  “He attempted to leave Bayeux earlier. As ordered, the watch guard refused him politely.” William bent to kiss his wife’s lips, bringing her body nearer, feeling her against his naked chest. It did amaze him that this woman could so completely and easily disarm him, could make him forget that, maybe, beyond the bolted door stood a man with a dagger to thrust into his heart.

  Mathilda slid the chemise from her shoulders and allowed him to lift her on to the bed. He kissed her throat, fondled her breast, moved his hand across her stomach, parted her legs. Always the same, he always did the same.

  Her daughter would not take kindly to the prospect of marriage; she had her heart set on serving God. Well, she must be made to understand that the child of a duke such as William had no choice in the matter of her future. Perhaps Bishop Odo could help. As a man of the cloth he was in a position to persuade the girl that a nunnery was not a suitable destination for her. Odo, despite his pomposity, would be better than William in a rage, raving at the girl to enforce his decision. Force, as Mathilda knew well, was not the best way to begin a marriage—although, she supposed, it had worked for her in the end. She realised that her mind was wandering, that she was taking little notice of her husband’s intimacy.