Peaceweaver

by Judith Arnopp

  Harold had cast his net of spies far and the news from Normandy was that William, in a frenzy of rage at the perceived betrayal, was building ships and summoning armies to ride against the oath-breaker as he had dubbed Harold. Leaving the children in Anwen’s safe hands, I accompanied the king to the Isle of Wight where, as a precaution, he had set his fleet in the channel under the command of Eadric the Stearsman, a loyal and trustworthy man who would watch, undaunted, for signs of William’s coming.

  We stood together on the chalky cliff top, looking across the choppy grey seas toward the empty horizon. Above us seagulls soared, lamenting the world’s end while a skirmishing northerly wind set my skirts thrashing at my ankles and whipped my hair from its bands. For too long Harold stood still, staring unblinking across the seas. I slipped my frozen hand into his, which was warm and dry, and he looked down at me.

  ‘Come, Madam, I keep you in the cold too long, let us go back, my stomach growls for want of food.’

  His arm about my shoulder, we walked together back to the camp and, as we drew close, the smell of roasting meat teased our noses and set our juices running. A group of burly warriors cleared a path for us as we moved toward our pavilion.

  ‘How worried should I be, Harold?’ I asked sometime later, sinking my teeth into a juicy hank of mutton, ‘You can beat William’s army, can’t you?’

  ‘Course I can,’ he scoffed, breaking the bread in two and handing me half. ‘I’ve not met an army yet who can best a Saxon shield wall.’

  He chewed diligently for a few moments, ‘and anyway, God is on our side, he will not allow the Norman bastard to even get close to our land. I have put the fyrd on alert and your brothers are mustering their armies in the north. By the time William’s ships draw nigh our shores, we will be ready and waiting. I’ll wager not one Norman foot will venture from their decks.’

  The tent was warm, the braziers hot and, snuggling to his side I grew drowsy, and he bid me lay down for a while; there was no need for me to go outside with him again. Wrapped in furs, my belly full and my fears sated by his brave words, I lay on the bed and let the crying of the gulls and the rhythmic flapping of the tent lull me to sleep.

  West minster -summer 1066

  We returned to the mainland certain that England was safe. The fyrd were on standby, ready to ride out at the king’s command and Eadric the Steersman stood vigil in the channel. Safely back at West minster, when the first threat did come, it caught us unawares for it came, not from Normandy, but from Tostig.

  Embittered and irate, he launched a sea attack upon the Isle of Wight, burning and slaying all who attempted to stand against him and press-ganging the survivors into his service. Harold, furious at his brother’s perfidy, called out the fleet and the Wessex fyrd and sent word to the earls to stand ready for battle.

  The precious bulge of my stomach was just visible beneath my draped tunic. I placed my two hands protectively over it while I waited anxiously in the palace compound. The mustering army grew by the hour, great armoured warhorses milling and jostling while, on their backs, Harold and his huscarls made ready to ride forth beneath the belching flag of the Wessex dragon.

  The banner rolled and unfurled in the wind, its trailing tails snapping like a living beast, the red and gold thread glistening in the sulky sunshine. The sight of it reminded me of Gruffydd’s flag Y Ddraig Goch, a dragon too, and the memory of an old Welsh refrain Rhodri had often sung jangled annoyingly in my head. I stood alone, bereft at Harold’s imminent departure, unable to ask him to stay.

  Harold, armoured and armed, was mounted on his warhorse, clothed in battledress; looking, in fact, just as he had when I first saw him. He removed his helmet and the horse pranced, snorting hot breath into my face. I found myself incredulous that I had been brought from Wales on that very same beast. I tiptoed across ground that was trodden into mire, to stand close to the stirrup, dwarfed by the massive horse. Harold smiled down at me, his lopsided grin lending boyish appeal to the deadly façade.

  ‘It will be over soon, sweetheart, so keep my bed warm.’ he called and I saw Godwin, who rode beside him, blanch and set his jaw.

  Anwen was urging me to step back from Harold’s stirrup, declaring the compound to be no place for a pregnant woman.

  ‘One kick could kill you, Lady, or the slightest jostle abort your child,’ she cried and, obediently, I retreated with her to the steps of the hall. I raised my kerchief and smiled wanly at Harold’s ironic salute and, with a great cry and an answering bellow of fury, they clattered over the bridge in a swirl of dust and chaos.

  The palace dogs chased the cavalcade, barking and leaping about the horses’ feet, snatching at their tails. Small children cheered and ran after them, only returning at their mother’s behest.

  Silence settled with the dust and I returned to my chambers, hearing but not listening to Anwen’s cheerful chatter and the clamouring of the children. There was nothing to do now but pray for him, to entreat the Lord to look kindly upon England’s king and send him home safe …and soon.

  Edward’s church stood out against the wet summer skies and, pushing wide the carved door, I shook the raindrops from my hood and approached the altar. It was deserted within, the vast space magnifying the sound of my footsteps. An extravagance of candles burned on the altar and I lit another, saying a prayer for Harold’s safe return and also asking God’s blessing for the late king who lay beneath the nave.

  ‘Oh Edward,’ I thought, ‘if only you had been strong enough to name a proper heir, none of this would be happening. If only your weakness hadn’t led you to promise everything to all men, England would have continued in peace.’

  On my knees I prayed again, for Harold, for Edward, for my children and for all England that trembled beneath the threatened violence of the dragon in the sky.

  It was not until the end of June that I received a missive from my husband, it was a much-crumpled parchment by the time it reached me, tossed and jostled and passed from hand to hand on its journey. Breaking the seal and unrolling it, Harold’s words were revealed, written in his own hand.

  Well beloved (he wrote)

  May this find you in God’s keeping and bearing our child with great care. My brother, Tostig, after harranging and bringing a scourge upon the people of Wight, sailed on to Sandwich, where he recruited more men, most against their will. Our army, together with the fleet, chased his scyps off northward where he raided along the coast of East Anglia. He now heads for the Humber where ‘tis hoped your brothers lie in wait. Where trouble goes, so must I follow and this is to tell you that my return will be delayed. Have faith that, as soon as this matter is dealt with, I shall return to you at Thorney and recommence our nuptials.

  Look to yourself and the children.

  Harold rex.

  I still have that letter, here in my pocket and I treasure it, for it is the last he wrote me. Edwin and Morcar, together, drove Tostig from their lands and made it too difficult for him to continue to wreak his vengeance. As the weeks went by his men began to desert until he was left with just twelve ships where once he’d had sixty. In the end, forsaken and demoralised, he fled to the court of Malcolm of Scotland where he lurked like a spider, spinning and plotting, all the summer long.

  I spent my time watching from the highest hills around Thorney. Longing for the first glimpse of the dragon of Wessex or Harold’s banner of the fighting man. After many days I eventually saw, in the distance, the dust thrown up by the cavalcade and, leaping upon my pony, I rode forth to meet him, cantering ahead of my escort and not stopping or heeding anyone until Harold was before me on the road.

  Panting for a few moments, I watched his approach and as he drew near I slipped from the saddle, covering the last few yards on foot. He swung me into his arms, breathing hard into my neck and squeezing the breath from my lungs. ‘Oh, Harold. I am so glad you are back safe, I have not had a minute of peace, I swear.’

  Pulling back, he looked me up and down.

  ‘W
ell, you look good on it, sweetheart. For a while there, so swift was your approach, I thought we were under attack. Come, let us walk a while, my arse is sore of the saddle and I would hear all your news before I am swamped with state business.’

  Later that night, when all his business was done, we ate a meal together in the comfort of our chamber. He fell upon his food while I feasted my eyes upon of him. In the bob and dance of the candlelight he looked drawn and ailing and I resolved to restore his former vitality. I told myself that a little love and rest would soon have him back in full fettle. Yet, in the weeks that followed, all the cosseting and loving I heaped upon him couldn’t restore him to his normal self.

  He blamed the worries of state. The tedium of kingship and the constant coming and going of messengers, couriers and spies drained his energy and sapped his enthusiasm. As we waited for William, our nerves raw and our tempers frayed, his face and demeanour remained dour.

  I was poor company for Gytha, who had come to be close by when the child came. But she made no comment on my distracted mood and, instead, played with the children and gossiped with my women while they stitched tiny garments for the coming babe. I had no patience with needlework at this time, all I could think of was William waiting, just the other side of the narrow stretch of water, to burn our palaces and slaughter our children.

  Harold was in a similar vein, with no time for hunting, his forced incarceration brought pallor to his face and his former rapacious appetite decreased. I grew fretful in the small hours and lonely in my bed, waiting for him to come to me while he signed charters and permissions until dawn. As daylight was beginning to show in the east, he would come creeping, cold and exhausted, beneath my bedcovers to fall straight into a deathlike sleep.

  William set sail in July; the news came as we broke our fast on a Friday morning. Harold threw down his knife and rode away with barely a word of farewell. I wept, certain he would never return. ‘Come, Lady, do not fret. Look, the children have come to show you the pup that Harold gave them.’

  I sat up and wiped my eyes on my sleeve as the children approached. I must be brave for their sake, as Harold would expect. Idwal regarded my red-rimmed eyes and thrust the puppy at me,

  ‘He will cheer you up, Mother,’ he said, ‘He is small now but the king says he will grow as big as a horse in no time.’

  The pup clambered up my chest and tried to lick my nose and I made a watery attempt at a smile.

  ‘He likes you, Mother.’ laughed Maredudd, ‘he wants to kiss you.’

  ‘Hmm, I am not sure that I wish to kiss him though, Maredudd. Come sit on the bed with me, you are making me feel better all ready.’

  The pup bounded about, leaping from one child to the other, trying to lick their faces, delighted with his new friends.

  ‘What have you named him?’ I asked, stroking the rough grey coat of the young wolfhound.

  ‘Puppy.’ announced Nest, lunging forward and patting him roughly.

  ‘Ooh gently, Nest.’ I cried, ‘you must be gentle-like-a-lamb with baby creatures.’ Her touch gentled and she beamed up at me, ‘like a lamb,’ she repeated, her soft cheeks glowing in the torchlight.

  ‘I wish it would stop raining,’ sighed Idwal, ‘its ages since we played outside, bathed in the stream or made camps in the woods. Do you think it will rain forever, Mother?’

  ‘Well it never has before,’ I replied, stroking his hair, ‘It has to stop sometime soon.’ He ducked his head from beneath my hand and slipped from my reach,

  ‘I’m not a baby, Mother, I am nigh on seven years old.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweet one. It is easy for a woman to forget her son is all but a man. Harold complains that Grandmother Gytha treats him like a ten year old.’

  They laughed, Idwal throwing his head back as he had seen Harold do. Was it truly seven years ago that I gave birth to him? I remembered the companionable cooking hall where Rhodri had chosen both my boys’ names.

  I wondered which name he would have chosen for his daughter given the chance, would he have approved of the name Nesta? I sighed, sure that he would have. We had been so young. Sometimes I tried to recall his face but it was dim in my memory now, superimposed with the jaunty, moustached face of my new husband.

  Now that I was so in love with Harold, a man entirely different from my first love, I recognised the immaturity of that first tenderness and I wondered if it would have lasted had he lived.

  The old people used to say that three women, known as the Norns, wove human fate. They sat in the roots of a great, spreading tree, spinning the fragile threads of destiny into the complex fabric of life.

  When they grew peeved they worked misfortune and despair into the pattern. I sighed. My own fate trailed behind me like a worn petticoat, patched and mended with good intentions. What, I wondered, would those three women make of my future.

  Drawn from my reverie by the children’s excited chatter, I exchanged glances with Anwen and indicated with a nod of my head that she should bring forth some sweetmeats I had laid away in a cupboard. The children fell on them and, for a while, there was no sound but the appreciation of honeyed wafers.

  ‘Will the king be away long do you think?’

  ‘Let us hope not. Let us pray that he will defeat the invaders quickly and send them home with their devil tails tucked between their legs.’

  Maredudd’s eyes were huge, ‘Do they truly have tails, Mother? I had thought that was just a story.’

  ‘Horns too, I’ve heard, beneath them helmets,’ chimed in Anwen, sending the children into squeals of laughter. The fun intensified when the pup who, for want of a better name, was still referred to as Puppy, sauntered over to where Harold’s favourite cloak was draped over his chair and lifted his leg up it.

  Our hilarity spread like his puddle of pee but it was the kind of laughter you hear at a funeral. I have seen it often, the grim reality of death countered by the relief of simply being alive. Hilarity is the best weapon for warding off our own mortality, a reality often too terrible to contemplate. I joined in with them, forcing my anguish into joy but I expect I fooled no one, least of all myself. At bedtime they clustered at my knee to kiss me good night before trailing after Maude to their beds.

  It was a few days before the clouds thinned enough to allow the sun to break through and we were able to walk across the water meadows toward the river’s edge. The ground was soggy underfoot. I felt the damp seeping into my slippers and knew the hem of my gown would never come clean again. However the sun had shone too rarely of late, so I ignored the damp ground and, taking Nesta’s hand, helped her negotiate a drier way through the mire.

  The boys ran ahead, the pup splashing through puddles behind them. They waved their wooden swords in the air while their happy cries mingled with that of the birds that wheeled and soared in the blue sky.

  At the edge of the river, waterfowl stepped through the mud and, as the boys approached, a heron flew up and flapped, calm and aloof, away from the furore.

  An ancient willow provided a handy seat where Anwen and I propped ourselves while we loosened the neck of our gowns, protesting that it was too hot. It had been so all summer, dark, dull and chill until the sun burst forth in all its glory to roast us in our winter woollens.

  Maredudd and Idwal dabbled at the water’s edge, looking for fish and frogs, Nest tried to follow but, unskilled as she was in rivercraft, she sat down in the mud and cried out in protest at the sudden cold on her nether regions. I watched, laughing, as Anwen picked up the sopping child and stripped off her muddied gown, she would do better in her shift and be cooler too. Promising to keep a watch on Nest, Anwen moved away a little, leaving me to lie back on the fallen trunk to look at the scudding sky and doze in the sun. Just as I was drifting off, a cry came from the direction of the bank as Maredudd flicked a fish onto the bank.

  ‘Got one.’ he cried, watching the tiddler flounder in the grass, ‘Harold said all I needed was patience and he was right. I just crept up on it slowly
, hardly moving at all until I was beneath it and flipped it into the air. Ha ha. I bet the fish was surprised to find himself flying like a bird.’

  ‘Well done, sweet one,’ I called, lying back again but another call brought me upright again.

  ‘Who is it who comes? I think ‘tis our step brother, Godwin.’

  My heart beat sickeningly as I watched Harold’s son ride closer. His horse sloshed through the wet grass and came to rest a few feet from us. Godwin slid to the ground and stood before me, shy and hesitant. I knew he had come to tell me Harold was dead, I just knew it and every cell in my body cried out against it. Inside my head was screaming, long, high and loud.

  ‘Tell me.’ I cried, closing my eyes and tilting my head back, ‘just say it, go on.’

  ‘Nay, Lady.’ he answered, reaching out to steady me, ‘tis good news I bear … well, not as ill as you imagine anyway. The king is well, he sends me to bring you to him for he plans to make camp on the coast. The bastard set sail as was reported but was thrown off course by the wind. According to Eadric, his fleet has been beached close to St Valery harbour. He is stuck there until the northerly winds allow him to leave.’

  All the strength deserted my body. ‘God be praised.’ I cried, sinking onto the tree trunk again, ‘tis good news indeed, Godwin, I thank you for it. ‘Twas not what I expected to hear.’

  ‘I guessed that, Madam, forgive my clumsiness. Now by your leave, I must ride forth to my mother who also waits for news. I will return tomorrow to convey you south to the king if that is your wish.’

  He rode away, his back erect and his legs long in the stirrups; the further he rode the more he resembled his father. I felt a renewed surge of resentment for Eadgytha, who had enjoyed so many years of trouble free happiness with Harold while I, his church wed wife, knew nothing but fear.

  September – 1066

  Strung out along the south coast of England, Harold’s army waited, with scarce a free-drawn breath, for William’s ships to appear on the horizon. The tents and paraphernalia of war made a cheerful splash on the green cliff top, but there festivity ended, for faces were tense and conversation muted.