I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  Huh, Duke William! Harold signalled that they increase the pace to a jogtrot, nudging his horse’s flanks with his spurs. To invade England would take no small amount of expense and organisation, practical factors that Harold assessed William would automatically dismiss as irrelevant. He would never consider that there might not be a suitable number of boats, that tides and winds could go against him—that men might not be eager to support him. Harold had learnt that much of William while in Normandy. He rubbed at his moustache, smiling in enigmatic self-mockery. Duke William would never doubt, as Harold was doing at this moment, his personal ability, his aptitude, his right. Perhaps that was why he doubted himself, for he could concede an area where the Duke of Normandy was the stronger of the two.

  Then other worries swept over him. Who was to say that England would remain loyal to Harold Godwinesson? Approval for him was widespread and apparently unanimous—at least, south of Lincoln it was—but who was to say how long it would last? A year, two, three ahead, would these same people who lined the roadways as he passed by cheer and wave, and give their blessings?

  “You look pensive, my friend. What troubles you?” Bishop Wulfstan jolted the King from his reverie. “If you are concerned about the loyalty of the North, it is only that they fear for their own well-being. Once we have allayed those fears, all will be well”

  Harold smiled at his old friend and travelling companion. “Nay, it is my own fears that concern me, my own self-questioning.”

  “It is no bad thing for a man in authority now and then to examine his conscience. Doubt, my Lord King, balances aggression and a greed for power. So what troubles you? I possess a good ear for listening, and occasionally can find a sensible answer.”

  Harold shook his head. “You of all men carry a fathomless well of wisdom. No other is so apt to say the right thing at the right time as you.”

  Wulfstan snorted. “Nonsense, I am older than most men and have therefore fallen into more difficulties—and found my way out of them again, that is all.”

  Declining to argue, for the Bishop was, above all else, a modest man, Harold admitted, “I have a weight of doubts and troubles rattling in my head, but it is for me to sort them.”

  Beneath the shelter of the hedgerows, nestling in deep rifts and pockets of undergrowth, lay a carpet of white flowers, looking almost as if fresh snow had fallen in a haphazard scatter overnight. Yet few of the men took notice as their horses trampled by, for the snowdrops had been in bloom for several days and were no longer greeted with pleasure as the heralds of spring.

  Ahead stood a mill set beside the race of the river. Folk were coming from within wiping floured hands on sacking aprons, faces eager and curious, expressions turning into excited delight as the banners were recognised. A woman sent a boy running up the road, to summon out the villagers; a little girl stooped to pluck a fistful of new-budding celandines, their opening, even more than the snowdrops, signalling the last flourish of winter. Gravely, she held them up to Harold as he passed. He smiled, leant from the saddle and accepted the posy, tucking the ragged stems through the pin of his cloak brooch. She reminded him of Algytha, as she had been as a child of six or seven. Blue, wide-amazed eyes, pert little mouth, cherry-coloured cheeks. And Algytha reminded him of Edyth. As if he needed reminding! Christ God, but everything reminded him of her. A blue sky, A thrush’s song, a bank of snowdrops…Edyth? Would he ever, ever see Edyth again?

  They rode on past the mill and through the village, accepting the gifts and good will of the land-folk. Several boys ran with them a way, keeping pace and chattering with the last men of the phalanx of riders. On into the woods, the deeper shadows of oak and ash and beech. No birch. Harold was glad of that. Of all trees, the silver bark of the birch brought Edyth’s dear, sweet face too close to mind.

  “I have made up my mind as to the problem of satisfying the North,” he said after a while to Wulfstan. “There is one way I can convince those northern nobles that I intend to remain true to my word. I shall forge an alliance with their earl, one that cannot easily be broken.” Turning his head, Harold met the wrinkle-lidded gaze of the Bishop with his keen, clear-sighted eyes. “I shall offer to wed with Morkere’s sister Alditha.”

  Wulfstan pursed his lips, nodded approval. “And you doubt your wisdom? Ah, no, my king, ’tis excellent thinking.”

  Harold returned his eyeline to the front, studied a bone-thin goose girl herding a gaggle of hissing geese to new grazing on common land. He ordered that someone toss her a coin. A new-minted penny, which bore not the head of Edward but the new king, of Harold, second of that name.

  “It was not of my thinking,” he admitted to Wulfstan. “Edyth, when last I saw her, suggested it.”

  Holding his peace for a few paces, the Bishop observed, “It takes a brave woman to suggest a suitable new wife for her own husband.”

  Harold made no answer. It took a braver man not to break down and weep as he had clung to such a woman. And Harold had realised, at that instant of saying goodbye to his love, that he was not a brave man.

  ***

  Alditha stood with her two brothers on the entrance steps to the Earl’s palace in York. She dipped a deep curtsey as Harold, stiff and cramped after the long hours of riding, dismounted. The townsfolk had waited at the London gate and lined the narrow streets to see their king ride in. Some had cheered his coming but many more stood silent. A few had dared to jeer, cursing the name of Tostig Godwinesson. The housecarls had made moves to reprimand them for the hostile welcome but, with a sharp word, Harold had forbidden any retaliation.

  “It is not me they show disrespect to, but my brother. I know him better than they and have every sympathy for their ill feeling.”

  “My Lord King.” Earl Morkere stepped forward, bowed and greeted Harold with an embrace. “It pleases me to welcome you to York.”

  Harold returned the embrace, then said, without a qualm, his hand flicking to the sullen crowd. “It seems not all the folk hereabouts share your enthusiasm for my arrival.” Seeing Morkere’s unease, he added with a broad smile, “I must, then, make an effort to ensure that when I leave, they regret my going.” Gallantly, Harold then turned to the Lady Alditha, kissed her hand and offered her his arm to escort her within doors.

  Morkere exchanged a wry glance with his brother Eadwine before gesturing for the Bishop Wulfstan to proceed after Harold. Neither man had missed the radiant smile with which their sister had appraised the King, nor his answering expression of delight.

  “You are as thin as a peasant goose girl we encountered on the journey here.” Harold remarked to her as they walked together. “Shall I cheer you by tossing you a penny with my portrait stamped upon it?”

  “I have no need for pennies or portraits, my Lord.”

  “No, indeed, not when you have the man in his very flesh beside you. I do believe I am not as hard or round as coin though. Somewhat of a higher value too, I would say.”

  She smiled at his absurdity. She had, she must secretively admit, missed his company.

  “I was surprised not to find you at court when I returned from Normandy,” he said. “Was Edward not kind to you after I had gone? Or were you pining for your brother’s company—or for Wales, perhaps?”

  Since his questioning had been candid, Alditha answered in a similar vein: “I doubt King Edward could have been deliberately unkind to anyone. The ladies were somewhat tedious, and my brother Eadwine’s household suited me better. As for Wales, I have always admired the scenery. ’Tis but a shame the temperament of the people cannot always be as beautiful.”

  “I think you will find that the new king will be as kind, and that the ladies of his court will not be so glib with their remarks.” Harold halted, placed his finger beneath her chin and tipped her face upwards. “As for Wales, no scenery could match in beauty that which I see before me.”

  She blushed crimson and moved her head awa
y, but almost immediately found her courage and stared back at him. “Kind words, my Lord, but words come easy. Sustained kindness that issues from the heart is far harder.”

  Harold laid his fingers lightly over hers. In what was almost a whisper for her hearing alone, he said, “That depends, does it not, on who speaks the words and who owns the heart?”

  5

  Waltham Abbey

  Mother? Why not come with me to see the foals? It is a beautiful evening, a pity to waste what promises to be the first fine sunset of spring.” Algytha slid her arm around her mother’s waist and kissed her cheek, noting the pale thinness of her face, the tiredness of her eyes. Grief, the loss of a loved one. Would it have been easier for her mother to have accepted Harold’s leaving if he had died? Algytha caught her breath—no, not that. Do not, ever, think that!

  Edyth peeped at a small pot of water simmering over the cooking fire, grasped a handful of yellow flowers from the basket on the table and dropped them in. “I am making cusloppe tea for Gunnhild. With a little honey added, the poor child may sleep sounder this night. She has been so restless of late.”

  “She is excited about those pups coming soon; Silk has only a few days to go before her whelping.”

  “Aye, and the young lass does love that bitch so!” Edyth smiled as a memory flooded her mind. “I once cared for a dog as much as she. We were inseparable, he and I.” Hastily she gathered more flower heads, stirred them into the infusion, banished the memory of Thor from her mind. Her dog, her friend. His violent death…Harold.

  Algytha selected one of the leaves from the plant and nibbled at it. The cowslips and primroses had bloomed in abundance this spring, their flowers bringing a burst of yellow sunshine to hedgerow and meadow edge—an alternative sunshine to that which had been lacking in the sky these past cloud-dulled April days.

  Algytha put her hand under her mother’s elbow and eased her away from the fire. “Someone else can keep an eye on that infusion, Mother. You haven’t slept soundly either; a walk to the top of High Meadow will relax you. There are four foals; you know you enjoy watching them prance.”

  Undecided, Edyth looked from the steaming pot to the open doorway. The trill of evening birdsong filtered in, and the sweeping rays of golden sunlight highlighted the swirl and dance of floating dust. The evening outside beckoned, rich with pleasure.

  Removing the old square of patched linen from around her waist, Edyth smiled and nodded. Beside the door, she slipped her soft house-shoes from her feet and donned stouter hide boots. There would be puddles a-plenty, and mud between the gateways, but if this sun and boisterous drying wind continued for a few days the ground would soon lose its winter weariness.

  They passed through the huddle of trees in the apple orchard, scattering the chickens scratching for the last of the day’s grubs among the blossom that flecked the grass. The sun, a low ball of fire-red, was sinking towards the purple-dark ridge on the far side of the valley, the sky behind, the vivid, clear blue of early evening. With the wind fresh in their faces the two women, arm linked through arm, walked up the gentle sloping hill. Laughter rippled from the spinney ahead. The boys, Magnus and Ulf presumably, for Edmund had waved to his mother from the lower meadow, where the last of the bulge-bellied ewes were to lamb.

  As they passed through the new growth of rich, spring grass, their feet left a double silvered trail, for the dew was already descending. Reaching the hawthorn hedge, which showed a trace of white from the blossom that would soon be smothering it, Algytha pointed to a blackbird’s nest. The mother bird crouching on her eggs peeped out at them with her bright black eyes but never stirred.

  “Brave little bird!” Algytha said. “How many mothers would sit so determined in the face of such a threat?”

  “I suppose it depends on the nature of the mother—look at the cuckoo bird, she abandons her children the instant the egg is laid.”

  Algytha gave her mother a loving squeeze. “Glad I am, then, that you are the hen blackbird, not the cuckoo.”

  Algytha lifted the latch of the gate, allowing her mother to pass through. The mares were grazing beneath the oak trees. They lifted their heads as the women approached, scenting whether there was cause for alarm. Algytha held out her palm, a shrivelled crab-apple from last autumn balanced there. The nearest mare, a pretty, black-maned dun, took a tentative step forward and daintily took the morsel, her foal sheltering close to her offside, peering warily beneath her dam’s neck. Eager for titbits, the other three mares crowded in, one setting back her ears and squealing, kicking out at her neighbour’s dark-coated colt.

  “No apples if you are going to squabble!” Edyth admonished, rubbing a chestnut mare’s white-starred forehead. The dun mare’s filly put her nose forward, sniffing delicately at Edyth’s unfamiliar smell—and then, without warning, skittered away, head ducking as she bucked and cavorted. That set the other foals into a whirl of similar antics, the four of them hurtling into a gallop across the meadow.

  When the titbits were finished, Edyth suggested they walk on to the crest of the hill. The sun had dipped almost beneath the horizon, and the sky was flooding with streaks of gold and purple, its glory reflected on the gold cross atop the nest of Waltham Abbey and in the meandering expanse of the river, its winter-risen depth still covering the meadow plains to either side. At least this year the floods had not come as they had last. As they watched, a hawk hung, poised, against the gold-painted sky, stationary except for quivering wings. He plunged, suddenly, and was gone.

  With a curious frown, her finger pointing to the purpling sky, Algytha said, “What is that? Look, there, that star! How bright it is—it looks as if it is trailing a stream of hair behind it, blowing loose in the wind!”

  Squinting to see more clearly, Edyth looked to where her daughter pointed. “I have seen such trailing stars before,” she said, “but never one as wonderful as this—it is like a dragon crossing the sky!”

  “Where has it come from? Do you think it carries a meaning?”

  Edyth gestured a hand motion of uncertainty. “Your father always said that a star falling to earth was the track of Our Lady Mother’s tears, weeping for a departed soul, but this is not such a star. It is not tumbling, but riding the sky-wind.”

  “Perhaps it is for a birth, then? Something like the star that sailed the heavens when our Lord Christ came to be born on earth?” There was a questioning note in Algytha’s voice, and a slight hesitancy. The star, brightening as the sky darkened behind it, was beautiful, but mysterious and a little frightening.

  Perhaps it is sent for the coming of a king.” Edyth’s answer was almost a whisper. The strange star shone yet brighter, more brilliant, hanging low in the south-western quarter of the sky, above where London clustered beside the Thames river. London and Westminster.

  He was there, at Westminster Palace, had returned for the Easter Council. The first Easter that he had been in England and not with her. Was his new wife with him, Edyth wondered? Was she yet with child? She stared at the shining star, blinked away tears that misted her vision. A star for a new king. For Harold, King of England. Or for a child that the woman, his taken wife Alditha, might be carrying for him?

  The first tear shimmered down her cheek, followed by another and another. She had tried to set aside these feelings of jealousy and anguish, tried so very hard. But how did you begin to forget a man who had been there through most of your life, as friend, husband and lover? Forget the father of your children? Begin to accept that now he lay through each night beside the warmth of another woman?

  Algytha, nineteen years old, a woman herself, although one who had not yet been touched by the intimacy of love, settled her embracing arms around her mother, her cheek, also damp with tears, resting against hers. And above, as the sky faded from a darkening blue to night black, the comet blazed in a glory of radiant silver, seen by all who looked up to the spatter of stars, dimmed against
its magnificence.

  6

  Westminster

  Queen Edith might have been content with the dull colours and the crucifixion theme of the tapestries covering her chamber walls within the palace at Westminster, but Alditha hated them. They were morbid and depressing, like so much of this dark-shadowed palace. Perhaps it was the lingering memory of Edward’s death or her own lethargy that made the place so melancholy? Whatever, she felt alone and miserable. Her daughter, Nest, had been mithering all day, intermittent tears between bouts of rage—by late afternoon Alditha had had enough of her, had slapped her legs and ordered the seven-year-old girl’s nurse to put her to bed. And now she felt guilty, for the child was running a fever, her face and back covered in the white-spotted blisters of a childhood illness. The poor lass must have been unwell for most of the morning and no one had listened to her discomfort. As her mother she ought to have realised.

  Alditha rubbed at her forehead; a headache was starting. She wanted to scream, shout—weep with despair. Instead, she sat before the hearth fire, her legs tucked beneath her. They were all sniggering at her; behind her back she could imagine their clucking words.

  “Calls herself a mother, didn’t even realise the wee lass was carryin’ the spots.”

  “Aye, an’ ’er with all ’er airs an’ graces!”

  She should not care what the serving women said of her—nor the wives of nobles and lords, but God help her, she did! Cared so much that the pain of their dislike hurt like a knife twisting into her heart.

  She ought to go to her bed, for she was tired, but she wanted to take one last look at Nest before retiring, and Harold might come. Doubtful, but he might. He had been in London all day, for it was the folkmoot,when the people met at the hustings beside the Cathedral of Saint Paul to discuss the business and laws of the city. He had ridden in, not an hour since, as dusk was falling over the river Thames, would need to eat, then finish the government tasks of the day; he would be tired. Too tired to come to her bedchamber.