Peaceweaver

by Judith Arnopp

  When I was a girl I had dreamed of a wedding upon which the sun shone and the birds sang. Instead, as at my first marriage, soft rain fell, soaking everything and turning the ground beneath our feet into a quagmire. Harold’s mother, Gytha, had come for the ceremony. She was quietly proud of her son and glad that he had, at last, found himself a church-wed wife. Kissing me on the cheek, she welcomed me to the family, admired my dress and tickled Nesta on the chin, finding a silver coin in her ear and pushing it into her fat, little fist.

  ‘For the alms box,’ she told her, as Anwen hoisted her into her arms to bear her to church. Then taking Leofwine’s arm, Gytha sailed off at the head of the wedding party and assembled in the churchyard ahead of my arrival. In between showers, my women and I dashed from the manor, our gowns making a splash of colour on the grim scene.

  The birds were silent and the sun did not show his head at all but the church door stood open and BoshamBosham’s single bell rang out to let the world know that it was a special day. Harold, clad in warm soft leggings and a plush blue tunic, met me at the church door and we all stood in the rain while the priest said the holy words over us and joined us as man and wife in the sight of God. Afterwards, when the deed was done, everyone gathered round, kissing me and slapping Harold on the back and I was no longer dowager queen of Wales but the Lady of Wessex.

  Our household was a merry one as we hurried back to the hall for the nuptial feast. Inside, the cheer chased away the grey weather. The walls were lined with tables, piled high with pastries and meat and the leaping firelight reflected in the gleaming cups. As we crossed the threshold the bards lost no time in tuning their instruments and Harold and I took our places at the head table to smile benevolently upon the gamboling host.

  The lilting tunes of the harpist took me back to Alys’ wedding at Dinefwr so long ago. What a child I had been then, full of girlish ideals; unspoiled, as yet, by the cold reality of Gryffydd’s debauchery. I smiled, recalling how Rhodri and I had laughed together after I’d caught Gryffydd rutting with the serving wench.

  ‘What are you finding so amusing, wife?’ Harold broke into my reverie so that, startled, I slopped some wine onto my lap.

  ‘Clumsy.’ he teased, mopping me with his kerchief.

  ‘I was thinking of when I was a girl, the harpist reminded me of a friend’s wedding that I attended long ago.’

  Sliding onto the bench beside me, he looked about the hall.

  ‘Grander than this, I’ll warrant,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it probably was, and a lot more crowded too, but I don’t mind. I’m not one for grandeur; in fact, my dream has always been to live in a small cott, married to a simple cotter with a garden for vegetables, some chickens and maybe a house cow. Riches have never bothered me …’

  His big laugh cut off my speech.

  ‘…and here you are married to the richest man in England. However will you endure it?’

  ‘I’m sure I will manage,’ I laughed and then sobered a little. ‘Don’t you ever tire of it though, Harold? The demands of your position, all the pretence and the pomp of court?’

  He looked about him at the frolicking company.

  ‘Tell the truth I haven’t given it much thought. I can’t imagine a different way of life, this is all I know … it’s all I’ve ever known.’

  ‘I wonder how the king is?’ I said suddenly, ‘he was looking so frail when we left. I hope Edith doesn’t think it too selfish of us not to wait until he was recovered enough for them to attend.’

  Harold filled our goblets with more wine.

  ‘At least it saved her the satisfaction of refusing the invite. She hasn’t spoken to me since the upset with Tostig but she was ever one to sulk. I suppose Edward’s sickness will take the minds of the chroniclers from our wedding too, the fusty old fellows will be hunched over their inkpots writing about Edward’s illness and the northern rebellion and forget all about us.’

  Sloshing the deep red liquid about my goblet, skilfully keeping it within the rim all the while, I thought for a moment before replying.

  ‘Well, I for one don’t care. You have the parchment to prove it legal, don’t you? Just so long as our children are legitimate, it doesn’t matter one bit.’

  At my words a scurrilous expression spread across his face.

  ‘How many children are you planning, sweetheart, four or five?’

  ‘Oh, I thought six or seven at least, my Lord.’ I replied, refusing to be disconcerted. Placing his hand beneath the table and caressing my thigh, he smiled wickedly.

  ‘The sooner we get to it then the better, I say,’ he murmured and I buried my face in my goblet and took too large a gulp of wine.

  ‘Choke up, Sweetheart.’ he cried, thumping me on the back as I coughed and spluttered.

  To concentrate my mind away from the feel of his hot hand upon my thigh, I pretended interest in the maids and swains who were dancing, skirts twitching and boots thumping on the wooden floor before the dais. Maredudd and Idwal ran, darting in and out of the dancers, with a couple of terriers barking at their heels. Leo and Gyrth were involved in a game of high jump, leaping over the flames of the central fire while the company squealed and clapped with appreciation.

  ‘Watch your balls, boy.’ cried Harold, laughing as his youngest brother all but scorched his breeches. Harold’s head was thrown back and his big laugh echoed about the lofty hall. Reaching for a wafer filled with honey and currants, I noticed Harold suddenly grow still and following his gaze I saw that the doors had been opened to admit a stranger.

  Harold put down his goblet and wiped his mouth, standing up and waiting as the young man approached the high table. He was not much more than a boy, nineteen or twenty perhaps, his fair hair lifted on his shoulders as, his chin high and gaze direct, he made straight for the high table. I could not place where we had met before. He bent his knee before us, not looking in my direction but fixing his gaze on Harold all the while. Harold held out his hand in friendship.

  ‘Godwin,’ he said, ‘you are well come, my son, I am glad you could make it. I would like you to greet my wife, Eadgyth.’

  My eyes swivelled from Harold to rest upon his firstborn.

  ‘Godwin,’ I murmured, ‘I have heard so much of you, it feels we are already acquainted.’

  This was not true. Harold hardly ever mentioned his family and I don’t know why I lied. Godwin bowed and I felt his breath, although not his lips, on the back of my hand.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, without feeling, ‘I could hardly miss my father’s wedding, I am only sorry I was not here in time for the churching.’

  Offering him a goblet of wine, Harold sat down again, indicating that Godwin should follow suit. The boy perched on the edge of the table and gulped his wine. I felt for him as he wrestled conflicting loyalties to his mother and his father.

  ‘I came by way of court,’ he said, looking about the thronging hall, ’the king is sinking and my Aunt Edith would barely look me in the face. She is sore upset at you, Father.’

  ‘I know, but how else could I have acted? I cannot have the country up in arms just to please the whims of my brother and sister. What of Edward, does he not rally at all?’

  Godwin shook his head.

  ‘No, I spoke with his physician who says he is weak and chilled all the time, no matter how high they stoke the fires. He says there is a sweetness to his water and that he suffers an unquenchable thirst.’

  With a quick smile of regret Harold put down his drink.

  ‘We must return to court tomorrow so that I can consult with the physician myself. I had thought he would be recovered ‘ere we returned but, if he is ailing and like to die, he must name a successor. Young Edgar will be no good at all; the country will fragment beneath his rule, like ice beneath a hot sun. A fine Christ’s mass this will be with an ailing monarch and a stubborn, vindictive queen. Can you make ready to travel on the morrow, sweetheart?’

  And so, where I had hoped for a month at Bosham, Har
old and I had just one night and we were determined to enjoy it.

  The rain continued to fall and after dark the wind got up to howl and moan about the hall, lifting the tapestries and belching smoke back into the company. As soon as was seemly I kissed the children and took my leave of the family; Godwin looked on tight lipped as my husband and I, accompanied by the usual nuptial jokes, escaped to our chamber.

  ‘That went well, sweetheart,’ Harold commented as he dismissed the servant and stoked the slumbering fire back into life himself, ‘Godwin seems to accept you.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t, he hates me, Harold. How can you be so blind? Did you not see his tight lips and bitter eyes.’

  Struggling to loosen a knotted thong on his shirt, he said, ‘He might not like it much but at least he has shown he will make an effort to accept the marriage. I know him well, sweetheart, it is a good sign that he came. If we meet with him half way he will come round. Anyway how can any man fail to be won over by your charms?’

  I struggled playfully in his arms for a moment.

  ‘I think it more to do with his wish not to lose his father than any wish to welcome me as his mother.’

  ‘Hush, Eadgyth,’ he whispered, lowering his mouth to mine, ‘you chatter too much. The time is come for silence.’

  Alone in our bed, his tongue licked my soul, nibbling and kissing my psyche, changing me and moulding the molten wax of my heart to his will.

  Shamed at first, I tried to resist but soon, I gave in and lay back, delighting in the forgotten thrill of the right man’s lips upon my secret places. We rolled back and forth, wrapped in the shroud of my hair, while he stroked and kneaded and I wept, pulsing and drunk upon the skill of his craft.

  He discovered and opened something within me that that had previously lain fallow and upon his lathe I was turned into someone new.

  Thorney Island January 1066

  Christ’s mass was a drear one that year. The king was sick unto death and the palace in gloom, we crept about as joyless as the grave. The court was more crowded than was usual, even for Christmas, for men had come forth to attend the consecration and dedication of Edward’s church of St Peter’s. Too ill to attend the ceremony, the king had wept, exacerbating his malady and filling us all with anxiety. The Christmas celebrations were kept minimal, the mood subdued as we waited fearful in the royal palace.

  As soon as I laid eyes upon him, it was apparent that the king was not long for this world. It was only a few days since I had seen him last but, in that time, his skin has yellowed and his breath, when one drew near, was rancid. My old cook Envys, had she smelled it, would have said that spectres were dancing on his tongue.

  He was tetchier than ever. The court hastened to do his bidding, trying to tempt his palette with sweet morsels and bringing liquid to quench his insatiable thirst. Edith, stony faced and horrid, barely spoke to me although I had taken no part in Tostig’s downfall. She sat at her husband’s side and held his chilly hand, willing him to live, afraid of what would befall her after.

  The witanagemot, summoned to the Christ’s mass court, looked helpless upon their stricken king. It was a large gathering. The five earls, Harold, Leo, Gyrth, Morcar and Edwin, two archbishops, Stigand and Ealdred, together with eight bishops and all the leading thegns of England, stood helpless and knew not what to do. A successor must be named but still the king prevaricated.

  The outside temperature had dropped and many braziers burned in the king’s apartments, supplementing the roaring fire and depriving the room of oxygen. I watched our shadows leap and eddy on the wall as, like mummers robbed of lines, we waited for Edward to utter his last words and so provide our cue.

  ‘Go and refresh yourself, my queen,’ I whispered into Edith’s ear, ‘I will sit with the king.’ After a few moments, she rose and left the room without speaking. I sat beside the bed and took the king’s hand. He stirred, some instinct informing him that it was no longer his queen that wept beside him. He opened his red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘My Lady of Wessex,’ he croaked, remembering, even in his extremity, my new title. ‘Tis good of you to come.’

  ‘I am honoured to be here, Sire,’ I replied, grief tearing the back of my throat. He fidgeted his legs.

  ‘My feet and legs are so cold,’ he said petulantly, ‘and, did you know, I missed the consecration of my church, Eadgyth; after all my work and waiting, I was too ill to attend.’

  Tears of pain and disappointment crept from beneath his eyelids.

  ‘I attended the ceremony though, Sire. It was splendid. Would you like me to tell you all about it?’

  For the remainder of the chill afternoon I whispered into the king’s ear a description of the splendid consecration and dedication ceremony at St Peter’s, the west minster. He closed his eyes; the only indication that he still lived was the grip he maintained on my fingers. When the torchbearers came to replace the dimming lights, Edith returned and I rose and curtseyed.

  ‘He says his feet are cold, Madam. Shall I request extra blankets?’

  ‘I know he is cold, he complains constantly, but there are already so many coverings on him.’

  Sitting at the foot of the bed, she put her hands beneath the blankets and rubbed briskly at his feet and lower legs.

  ‘Bring the king fresh stockings,’ she ordered and Edward’s servant scurried off to find a pair. On his return, Edith stripped off his old ones and threw them, damp and stained with sweat, onto the floor and replaced them with soft, woollen ones. Continuing to rub his feet, she glanced up at me and, overcoming her resentment, said,

  ‘I thank you, Lady, for the care of him, I was in need of some respite. The king ever had much regard for you.’

  She did not smile but I took heart from her words nevertheless, wanting to heal the breach between us.

  ‘Madam, any time you ever have need of me, you have only to call,’ I said before curtseying again and retreating from the chamber.

  Alone, I waited long into the small hours. Wrapped in furs against the cold, I sat and looked out at the black sky. The stars stood out, stark upon their backdrop and the moon hung low, a great opaque orb, just above the horizon. It was quiet, the kingdom waiting breathless. Far off a dog barked, a night bird shrieked and then, all was quiet once more.

  I drew my furs closer about my shoulder and wrapped my arms about my body to warm myself, wishing Harold were with me. Wondering what was happening in the king’s chamber, I rose and fetched a drink from the nightstand and added some charcoal to the brazier. My eyes felt crusty and heavy with sleep but my mind writhed with regret for Edward, sympathy for Edith and the implications the king’s passing may have upon my future.

  Anwen had stayed at BoshamBosham with the children so, unwilling to summon a stranger to help me disrobe, I began to loose my braids, brushing and brushing until my hair leapt and crackled like a living thing. Then, slipping out of my gown I hurried into my nightrobe and back beneath the bed furs. I must have dozed because, quite suddenly, I became aware of movement in the chamber and opened my eyes. I saw that the candles had burned low and were guttering in a pool of grease.

  Turning over on the bed, I saw Harold sitting beside me staring into the slumped embers of the fire. It was not until I placed my hand on his shoulder that he realised I had wakened.

  ‘Eadgyth,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’

  ‘I have been sitting up waiting so there is no need to apologise. How does the king?’

  Harold ran his hands through his hair. ‘He has gone, sweetheart,’ he whispered, ‘peaceful at the last. He gave Edith and the country into my keeping but still did not specifically name an heir.’

  Tears gathered and dropped onto my cheeks. Although I had known his passing was inevitable, he had been a friend to me. An inadequate monarch, better suited to the church, but a good man nevertheless and he would be sadly missed.

  ‘What will happen now?’ I asked at last and Harold turned to me and took my frozen fingers, rubbing the war
mth back into them with his own.

  ‘The witan met directly the king had gone. As the man most suited to rule they offered the crown to me. There was none who disputed it, Eadgyth, and I am to be crowned on the morrow, at the West Minster, after the king has been laid to rest.’

  ‘The king is dead, long live the king,’ I murmured.

  ‘Tis what we expected to happen, ‘tis what your brothers wanted.’

  ‘I know,’ I groaned, ‘but it will change so much, Harold. We have been wed such a short time ‘twould have been nice to have some space to enjoy it. There will be no peace now, no leisure, no private time. Now we will be at the beck and call of everybody.’

  Harold began to remove his clothes, throwing his boots into the corner far from the bed so that the stink of them should not sour our sleep.

  The moonlight crept into the room and glistened on his torso, his skin shimmering in the opalescent light. His muscles rippled and stretched as, stripping off his tunic and braes he threw them near the brazier where they would retain some warmth. Then he strode across the chamber and climbed into the high, wide bed beside me.

  I lay my face on his shoulder and traced with a lazy finger the scar of a long-healed axe wound that trailed like a woodland path through the forest of golden hair. That night I lay with my Lord of Wessex for the last time. The night after, and for every night hence, I would lie with Harold, the chosen king of England.

  West Minster - 6th January 1066

  The slab of Edward’s tomb stood out stark, the mortar around the edges still wet. I could not take my eyes from it. I pictured him lying there, wrapped cold in his shroud as his erstwhile subjects continued with their lives as though nothing had happened. A few hours before dawn they had closed his blind eyes and, early this morning, we had laid him to rest. Now, some three hours later, we assembled again at the minster to crown Harold king.