I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  His eyes snatched to a white wake that folded around the keel—and another, and another, a silver glistening back, afin…he tossed his head and laughed. “Look, my brothers!” he crowed. “We have our friends to accompany us as we go to meet this bastard Duke of Normandy! Look! The dolphins have come to run with their sister!”

  A shout of exultation was tossed to the height of the mast, the strain was taken up by arm muscles and Eadric shouted the command they so eagerly awaited: “Lift her! Lift her!”

  Dolphin and Sea Star. From the west, the answering boom and boom of the war horns from Moon-Crest and Sun Singer. From the east, Cloud Chaser and Gull.

  The wolf pack was loose, and running fast on the trail of its prey.

  ***

  Like most of them crammed tight into the ships, Duke William was no sailor, but at least the strong wine he had swallowed before embarkation was keeping his belly where it ought be—unlike many of them who were hanging over the sides, spewing up their guts. How the horses were faring he could only guess, but at least the sea had calmed its heaving once they had cleared the leeward coast of Cap d’Antifer. That had been one of the most terrifying ordeals of his entire life—and he had seen plenty. The wind was not blowing from as far south as they would have liked, but the decision to risk embarkation had to be made. They had already waited over long and the opportunity, so William had been advised by his seafarers, might not come again.

  “What are our chances?” the Duke had asked them as they gathered together in a solemn group outside his command tent. Some, not willing to commit themselves, had scratched at neck and cheek, fiddled with ear lobes. Others had slowly shaken their heads, but most had agreed that the wind was unlikely to prove kinder this side of autumn. Clearing that lee shore was the dilemma. If only the wind would back a little more. Dives, the majority confirmed, was not the most favourable place from which to launch a sailing fleet. This prevailing wind was too westward, the lee shore too hazardous, with not enough experienced oarsmen to row them off, should need arise. Further along the coast would have been better—Eu, perhaps? Closer, too, to England.

  This particular argument had swung, blade about hilt, throughout the year, but William had been adamant. His muster point was Dives. Closer to Caen. Mile upon mile of sand suitable for the initial building of ships and the encampment of men. Beyond, sufficient grazing for horses. Add to that, an ideal embarkation point. Higher up the coast would mean a shorter, quicker voyage, but what was nearer for William was nearer for Harold too. His English fleet was more capable at sea, his spies were efficient. Dives was more protected because of its distance. When Harold learnt of Norman manoeuvring, the invasion fleet would be almost upon him.

  The captains had been right about that lee shore, however.

  William stood at the prow of his command ship, the Mora, his nails digging into the wood of the curving rail. He closed his eyes, saw again the spew of wave foam against rock and cliff, heard in his ears the rush of the sea as it beat against that coast, too close to the steerboard side of the fleet. The ships’ masters had known what they were doing and the wind had held. All but three ships of the convoy had slipped past the danger zone and headed out into the open sea.

  ***

  They were almost halfway across, so the Mora’s commander had said. So far all had gone to plan, even allowing for those few difficult horses who had been abandoned at Dives or had their throats cut, their carcasses heaved overboard. The mood of the men was buoyant and eager after these weeks within the confines of the camp. A few more weeks and William would not have been certain of holding their loyalty. Loading the supplies had taken much of their attention, but once that had been completed there was nothing to do save wait…no matter, now, they were under way, the thresh of spindrift frothing the water into a white churn of spray, curving beneath the bows of more than seven hundred ships.

  William gazed with pride at the array: large, sturdy traders’ craft, smaller fishing boats, a handful of warships, all held in tight check so as not to outrun the slower vessels. So many of them! Patterned sails, plain, striped, patched; red and blue, white, green, brown and saffron. Some men in the next ship saw the Duke watching them, raised their arms in salute and cheered his presence. Content, he waved back.

  His own was superb, a Flemish warship given as a present from his wife, built and paid for from her own purse. He gazed up at the wide billow of her striped red and saffron square sail, the bronze crucifix at the masthead glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight. Come nightfall, a lantern would be raised, as there would on all the boats to enable them to keep together—at least until any damned English ships were sighted. To avoid them, he was relying on the skill of his own Norman warships, riding ahead. They must discover the waiting English, signal word so that lanterns could be covered, sails reefed, course altered…over seven hundred vessels to be brought through a blockade under the secrecy of darkness. They had assured him it could be done, his captains and sea commanders. If they kept their nerve and their wit, they had said.

  The Duke raised his head, sniffed at the salt wind. The sun was dipping towards the western horizon. An hour until dusk. One more hour. Come dawn, they should be seeing the grey outline of England’s southern coast…

  ***

  They heard the hollow boom of the war horns before they saw the indistinct shadow-shape of ships. The white of oar stroke and bow wave, the gleam of bronze and glint of gold reflecting the sinking sun from the carved, grinning heads of the curving prows. Dragons, wing-stretched ravens, sea monsters. At their head, a craft with a prow shaped as a leaping dolphin. The English scyp fyrd, the sea warriors.

  Duke William watched in morbid fascination as they approached, racing through the creaming waves. So fast did they fly—even against the wind, but then, they were powered by thirty, forty, oars and were carried by the run of the tide. Eight knots or so could they speed across the open sea under the power of those oars, he had been told—by whom and when he could not remember. He could see the bank of oars to either side of the dolphin ship; could hear, now, the shouts echoing across the expanse of water between them, an expanse that was rapidly narrowing. Could hear, but not understand the meaning.

  “What is it they shout?”

  “It is the steersman, sir, calling the beat of the oar.”

  Unaware that he had spoken aloud, William stared at the man behind him who had spoken, a Fleming sailor. “And what ought we do about them?” William asked caustically.

  The sailor shrugged, pointed vaguely at the sails of the Norman fleet. “We do as the others are already doing, my Lord. We turn about and run. Else we drop to our knees and pray.”

  The blood streamed to William’s face, his breathing came in rasping gasps from his throat. “I run from nothing and no one!” The words burst from his mouth as he swung down from the foredeck, his strides taking him aft, to where his captain stood, issuing a burst of orders to the crew.

  “We fight!” William bellowed. “Give the order on the horn—set ready the archers. We fight!”

  “No, sir!” the Mora’s captain countermanded. “Your warships that were ahead must surely have already been destroyed. Your fleet is made of merchant vessels; when such encounter pirates, they run. It is not prudent to fight one of those dragon ships—and besides, our luck is turning against us twice over. See our sail, my Lord Duke? It is flapping. The wind has cast against us. She is veering to the west.”

  The Duke’s proud and glorious fleet began to scatter in disarray. Each ship, careless now of keeping within the discipline of the convoy, broke free and fled before the westering wind. Better, the seamen all agreed, to run for Normandy than meet the fire arrows of the English, all except the Duke, who stood rigid at the stern of his ship, with no choice but to watch. As well the words that ran through his mind were not voiced, for his oaths would have shocked even sea-tainted sailors.

  11

&nb
sp; Westminster

  Alditha sat upon the window seat, lost in her own thoughts, watching the intricate shadow patterns of the late-afternoon sunshine dancing through the wind-tossed foliage of the orchard’s fruit trees. A small orchard, only ten apple trees, but the grass beneath was lush and green, and the geese appreciated the freedom to graze there.

  Harold had returned to London yesterday, his face grey, eyes dark bruised, body-weary from the long summer of worry. At least for this year, it seemed the danger was ended. Duke William had seen his invasion fleet scattered, had lost more than forty of his slower, clumsier transports to the fire arrows of the English scyp fyrd; lost men to the grappling irons and savage hand-to-hand fighting that had followed.

  Eadric had accompanied the King to Westminster, the man’s joy at victory self-evident, his story of the fighting listened to in awe by all within the King’s Hall of Westminster, A tale, surely, to be told at the hearth side over and again on many a winter’s night. Harold himself had swept his wife into an immediate embrace as he had dismounted, kissed her full on the mouth and led her, arm linked through arm, into the palace, among the crowding throng, all anxious to hear the true version of what had happened along the southern coast and upon the sea. To her surprise, he had been attentive to her throughout the evening, had sat by her side, occasionally taking her hand or sliding his arm around her waist. His look had been unmistakable. That of wanting. She had told herself that his consideration was for the child swelling within her belly—this would be her sixth month. He had never concealed his delight in children, and for her to produce an heir so early in this marriage must be pleasing to himself and his court. It was, most certainly, to her brothers.

  Come the night, their first bedding together since the bloom of early summer, they had lain together, his lovemaking careful, mindful of her pregnancy. A blush slipped on to her face as she remembered the quiver-feel of his touch upon her. Gruffydd would never have absented himself from a celebration to lie with his wife. He would have staggered to bed, drunk and incapable.

  She half listened to the voices of the men: Harold, his two brothers, his nephew Hakon and the commanders of his housecarls, gathered around the high table. She must cease thinking of that damned man. Gruffydd was dead. Harold was her lord now. Harold, who cared for her, who had shown her how to enjoy the passion shared by a man and a woman. Gruffydd was gone—and, thank God, William too was gone, though she would not rest easy until his bones were also being picked by the worms. If Harold had not returned, if she had lost him so soon after she had found this wonderful feeling that was called love…

  The fyrd, that mighty force of men who protected England, had been disbanded yesterday, sent home to gather what they could of a poor harvest. The King’s brothers and his commanders would also be leaving soon. Everything was returning to normality, as if there had not been a summer-long run of fear, as if nothing from before Edward had died had altered, save that Harold was now king and she was queen. Queen of England, the Lady.

  Alditha could barely comprehend the implications. Naturally shy, she found it startling to have all eyes upon her, men bowing, women curtseying, to have her every word noted and obeyed. Were she to order a peasant to jump, head first, into the midden pit, would he do her bidding? She was Queen. Emma had been admired and feared for her knowledge and authority, Edith rapidly becoming cherished for her long devotion to Edward. What was there for herself? She did not ask much; all she wanted was to be appreciated and loved.

  She looked towards Harold. He sat at the table, listening to the flow of talk, not entering the conversation himself. He had slept ill, despite his weariness, his body twitching and restless. Several times he had spoken out in his sleep, most of his words unintelligible. A few clear and unmistakable.

  Once, when she had stretched out her hand to soothe him, he had been hot and fevered, his face, even in sleep, haggard, with cheeks hollowed and eyes sunken. His jaw hung slack and she had noticed, as he had prepared for bed, that the fingers of his left hand were stiff and clumsy. His illness of long past, he had said, plaguing him whenever he felt excessive tiredness aching in his bones.

  The need to be ever alert had played heavy on his mind, the weighty responsibility of ensuring England’s coast, to south, east and north, had been adequately guarded. It was one thing to be a king, as had Edward, with nothing more than the level of taxation, the making of laws and passing of judgements to contemplate, another matter entirely to be a war lord. Edward had little more to worry on, once his decision of where and when to hunt had been made. Perhaps, Alditha thought, that was unfair, but Harold had not met his first few months of kingship with the same ease as had Edward. Facing imminent invasion from two quarters had taken its toll of his strength, both mental and physical. Discreetly watching him and the men sitting with him, Alditha privately defied any of them to match the courage that her husband had displayed these last months.

  He ought to be elated, though, that William had been sent running, that Tostig, too, would probably not be seen again until next spring. But was it the strain alone that brought this deep, bone-aching weariness to his expression and body? Not his age, certainly, for he was only into his four and fortieth year, a young man by comparison with his father and Edward. Alditha watched him as he stared vacantly out of the windows to the north-east.

  From where he sat he would be able to see little except the blue sky overhead, but was it the sky he was seeing, or was his mind elsewhere, at Waltham Abbey and the manor house that stood on the high land above the valley? Those words, during the night? They had been Edyth’s name, called with longing.

  There was much to be dealt with at court, things that had had to be set aside: an accumulation of petitions and charters, a bishop to be appointed, letters of greeting to be acknowledged, sent by kings and princes of foreign lands. The clerks and administrators had attended to what they could, but to some things only the King could put his signature and seal. There were others, however, that even for a king were difficult to deal with: two women in particular. One he loved with all his soul; the other he was growing, daily, more fond of.

  Harold had been pleased to see Alditha waiting there to greet him, yesterday, in the courtyard. How loving had been her smile of welcome, her delight at having him home. She was pretty and sweet-natured, was undemanding and so innocent. He regretted the marriage, not because of her, but because of his own knot-tied feelings. How could he hurt her, bring her sorrow? But in God’s good name, how could he stop loving his Edyth? He sat at the table, the voices of his companions rising and falling in an indistinct sshh of sound, like the swell of the sea heard when a shell was put against the ear. He was not listening to a single word. All morning had he been busy—but at least the duties of government had kept his mind from wandering to this other thing. Was it because he was tired and dispirited that this heavy cloak of blackness was clamped so tightly down on his shoulders?

  He had tried, yesterday, to offer Alditha the respect that she deserved. And he had been pleased to see her, had enjoyed their lovemaking—she had learnt well and quickly during those brief weeks when they had been first together. That Welsh prince had been a fool, had missed the chance of having a good, loving and loyal woman bound close to his side. Was he, too, then, behaving the fool?

  He stared out of the window at the scudding clouds. His head ached; his arm felt stiff. A flock of starlings wheeled into view, swirling and screeching. He wanted to offer her his love, his attention. Was eager for this child to be born—but wanted it to be girl born, did not want another son, for it should be Goddwin to come after him, or Magnus or Edmund or Ulf. It should be Edyth sitting over there by the window…he groaned inwardly, a sound in his head, his heart. He would not let it reach his throat, would not, could not let Alditha become aware of the aching that throbbed inside for the need to see, to touch, to be with his Edyth.

  ***

  Two hours before dawn, Aldi
tha woke, startled and disorientated. She had been dreaming of war. Of dragon ships and bright-bladed axes. She turned to Harold, expecting to curl up beside the firm security of his body, but found that he was hot with fever. Trembling for fear that he was mortally ill, she struck a flint and lit the bedside lamp, set her palm to his damp forehead. He was drowsy, but awake, his fevered eyes glazed in the dim light.

  “What can I do to help?” she said, leaving the bed to rinse a linen towel in the hand basin of water, running back to lay it over his hot, sweat-damp skin. “I must send for your physician!”

  He caught her hand. “No! I beg you, word must not reach the ears of others that I am ill. I know not how many spies there are at court. Enough, I would guess, to pounce as quick as a hunting cat on a cornered mouse.”

  “But you are ill! I cannot let you suffer like this, I must fetch someone, must do something!”

  Attempting to sit, but realising he had only the strength of a new-born child, Harold managed a lop-sided smile, intending to comfort her anxiety. “Leave me to rest. ’Tis only tiredness. Edyth knew that sleep was the best for me.”