1066

by G. K. Holloway

  Divine Retribution

  That Easter the royal court moved, as was usual, to Winchester to observe the holy day and was enjoying the celebrations in Winchester’s Great Hall. After working his way through twelve courses Edward felt replete. Judging by the mood and inactivity of his guests so did the rest of his court. Surveying the scene, seeing the smiling faces, hearing the laughter and the good-natured banter above the sound of music, Edward wished he could feel more part of it all. He spoke English well enough now not to feel isolated through the limitations of his language but still he felt lonely. True, Godwin and his sons were much warmer towards him now the old status quo had been resumed. The people seemed to have forgiven him for his little transgressions and welcomed him as warmly to Winchester as they had ever done. But still he felt alone. How he missed Robert. Two letters were all he had written; they were kept hidden safely in a casket in a trunk by his bed. A monk, Hugh Margot, who was based at Steyning and frequently crossed the Channel to Normandy, had brought them to him secretly and taken letters to Robert in return. This exchange was his only contact with his dear old friend and the thought that he might never see him again gnawed away at him. His misery, he concluded, was all the fault of the hated Godwin.

  For the other members of the court, the feast had reached one of those pleasant moments when everyone was full and there was only wine and customary bread left on the tables and the men looked for easy conversation. Seeing Edward looking pensive, Godwin thought to lift his mood. As the serving men passed to and fro the earl called over to the King.

  ‘I have a new riddle for you, my Lord.’

  Mother of God, another riddle, he thought. ‘Do tell me,’ he said.

  ‘What am I?’

  A bastard, thought Edward.

  The King sat patiently waiting while Godwin told his riddle, the hall falling silent so everyone could hear.

  ‘I am a wondrous creature,’ said the earl with a lecherous grin. ‘To women I am a thing of joyful expectancy, to close-lying companions serviceable. I harm no city dweller excepting my slayer alone. My stem is erect and tall – I stand up in bed – and whiskery somewhere down below ...’ Bawdy laughter broke out all around.

  ‘Sometimes a countryman’s comely daughter will venture, bumptious girl, to get a grip on me,’ Godwin continued. He had everyone’s attention and it delighted him. ‘She assaults my red self and seizes my head and clenches me to a cramped place. She will soon feel the effect of her encounter with me, this curly-locked woman who squeezes me. Her eye will be wet.’ He finished to guffaws and ribald laughter all round.

  ‘What did you say?’ a voice called out. ‘I didn’t quite catch it.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to hear that again,’ said Edward, who hated lewd humour.

  ‘I think I know what it is,’ called out Aelfgar. ‘Our stallion’s got a big one.’

  ‘Never mind that, what’s the answer?’

  ‘Is it a church tower?’

  ‘A church tower! Whatever makes you think it’s a church tower?’

  ‘Well, it sounds like an erection of some sort.’

  ‘Is it a beard?’

  ‘No. It’s not a beard. Let me know when you’ve worked it out.’

  Two or three others stood up and told a riddle. The court was huddled in clusters as solutions to the riddles were sought out, gossip exchanged, conversations continued or conspiracies whispered until an awkward silence fell on the tables. At that moment a servant, attending to drinks, stumbled over some rushes on the floor but saved himself from falling by throwing the whole of his weight upon one foot.

  Godwin laughingly drew his table’s attention, pointing out, ‘We should all be like that, one leg helping the other, one brother readily coming to the aid of the other.’

  ‘Yes,’ Edward replied, ‘it’s always pleasant to see one brother help another and if my brother Alfred were alive today, he would help me now.’

  A deathly silence fell across the hall. Godwin jumped to his feet; a plate clattered to the floor as if heralding an announcement. All heads turned, all eyes focused on Godwin in the silent hall.

  ‘So, my Lord, you still believe me guilty of Alfred’s murder, after all this time? If I am guilty of Alfred’s death,’ he cried, ‘may God choke me with the next morsel of food that I put in my mouth.’

  He reached across the table and grabbed a piece of bread, put it into his mouth and started to chew defiantly. It was so quiet his breathing could be heard quite distinctly the length and breadth of the hall. Then all at once his shoulders started to rise and fall and his face turned red as he gasped for air. His eyes bulged, his face turned purple and he reached to his throat. Choking and gasping he crashed into the table, upsetting food, plates and drinks as he fell sprawling to the floor.

  ‘No! No! No!’ Lady Gytha cried out. She threw herself at Godwin, grabbing him, trying somehow to force life back into him. Wailing and crying, tears streaming down her contorted face, she had to be pried off her husband by Harold. Throwing his father over his shoulder, he carried him from the hall. Startled guests stared as Harold made his way to the King’s chamber.

  Unnoticed by everyone but Leofric was the smile on the face of Aelfgar. ‘What bad luck, now we’ll never know the answer to the riddle,’ he said.

  ‘It’s an onion,’ was Leofric’s curt reply.

  In a second, Aelfgar had calculated that he would be the prime beneficiary of Godwin’s death. Harold would take his father’s place in Wessex, leaving East Anglia without an earl. It would be fair of the King to honour the house of Leofric, as he had the house of Godwin, by restoring the earldom to its son. He looked at his father, who he could see was sharing his thoughts. They both turned their heads to the King, who looked startled by the event. They misread him; he was excited. If only Robert had been here to see this, was his thought.

  After collapsing at the King’s table, Godwin was taken to his bed where he lay in a fever. At times calm, at times disturbed, on the third day he screamed out, ‘Sweyn!’ This would be his last word.

  Thinking he held the reins of state firmly in his hands, Edward decided to steer his own course. While Godwin was dying in his sickbed, Edward hatched his plan. He summoned Tostig to Queen Emma’s old house, where he was staying until such time as Earl Godwin no longer required his private chambers.

  The King sat at a table with his queen. When Tostig entered he was invited to sit with the royal couple. The servants were dismissed so they could talk, overheard by no one.

  ‘Tostig, how is your father?’

  ‘Much the same as he’s been for the past two days.’

  ‘And what do the physicians say?’

  ‘They’re hopeful of a recovery.’

  ‘Good. That is good news.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You’re not so sure.’

  ‘We can but hope and pray to God.’

  ‘Very wise, Tostig. Very wise. It’s painful for me to have to have this discussion with you but I’m afraid it is something that must be done.’

  Tostig looked at Edward quizzically but remained silent.

  ‘For the country’s sake I must prepare for your father’s demise.’

  Tostig looked him in the eye impassively.

  The King continued: ‘In the unfortunate event of your father passing away, it’s my intention to make your brother Harold Earl of Wessex.’

  Tostig simply nodded his head. This was to be expected; Harold was the eldest surviving son and already had experience in East Anglia.

  ‘Aelfgar will be reinstated as Earl of East Anglia.’

  ‘I protest,’ replied Tostig firmly. ‘Surely …’

  The King silenced his brother-in-law with a graceful gesture of the hand. ‘Tostig, I have plans for you which will make you far more important than Earl of East Anglia.

  Tostig simply stared at him like a befuddled child before responding. ‘As Harold’s younger brother surely it is I who should be Earl of East Anglia. My wife is the s
ister of the Count of Flanders; you can’t expect her to be a thane’s wife forever.’

  It was obvious Tostig did not understand the politics of the move, but the King assured him. ‘Something will come up, Tostig, you will see. God will provide.’

  ‘God is going to provide me with an earldom?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. Lead a good Christian life, Tostig and you will see these things will come to you.’

  ‘I must wait for Leofric to die until I get something? My family’s position demands I have East Anglia!’

  ‘All things in good time, Tostig.’ Edward was not to be moved. Not in a way that anyone would notice. ‘You may go now and remember what I’ve told you and tell no one, absolutely no one at all.’

  After Tostig had left, Edith turned to her husband. ‘What did you mean by that, Edward? Tostig is confused and disappointed and rightly so. I think he might have led Judith to believe he would be made an earl after his return from Flanders. I must admit, I too expected he would have been offered something before now.’

  ‘I love your brother dearly and I will do all I can to help him. It’s awkward that your father sired so many worthy sons; positions will have to be found for all of them.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Edward; you have the wisdom of Solomon.’

  ‘Thank you my dear.’

  Earl Godwin was buried by his family in the old Minster at Winchester, next to Knut and Emma. While the Queen wept, Edward remained silent. He concealed well his pleasure in seeing the ground swallow up his old adversary. He knew instinctively the instant he saw Godwin struck down that England would enter into a new era without the sly old fox around. But Edward badly underestimated the value of a sly old fox.

  The New Earl

  For a time, life at the English court appeared to run smoothly. There were no threats from Norway; King Harald Sigurdson was far too embroiled in pursuing his claim to the Danish throne. Harold settled into his position as Earl of Wessex with ease. He had grown up in the earldom and knew nearly every worthy south of the River Thames.

  He had, in a relatively short period of time, become even more powerful than his father. As well as becoming Earl of Wessex, Harold was now Subregulus and Dux Anglorum. Already fluent in Norse and Latin, he had learned to speak French moderately well; all the better to communicate with Edward and the few remaining Normans at court. It was a gesture appreciated by the King. And so it was in an atmosphere of mutual trust and respect that Harold broached the subject of succession with Edward one day when they were alone in Edward’s private chambers.

  ‘I’m sorry to burden you, my Lord but the problem of the succession does need to be addressed. If we look to your closest family then Ralph and Walter are obvious candidates. The question remains, are they suitable?’

  ‘You know they’re not, Harold. Why do you even ask?’

  ‘Well, there’s still Cospatric.’

  ‘Cospatric! I wouldn’t have thought you’d put him forward as a candidate.’

  ‘I’m not recommending him, my Lord. He’s someone to consider, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I’d say he’d have the country plunged into civil war in no time. At heart he’s a Bamburgh and they’re full of self interest; all the power will go to the North. The South will resent that and a war will break out. No. Cospatric will have to be content as Earl of Cumbria, I’m afraid. So you see, Harold, what’s needed is faith. The Lord will provide.’

  ‘I think you’re right. He already has.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Edward the Exile, son of the late King Edmund. He’s alive and well and living in Hungary at the court of King Andrew.’

  Edward was visibly shocked; not so much at the idea of his namesake being alive, he had heard rumours, but at the idea of his being considered an eligible successor. It was the obvious thing to do, of course, and that’s why Harold had suggested it. For the life of him, Edward could think of no good reason why he should not be the next king, except of course that he was living on the other side of Europe.

  ‘And he has a son. So when, God forbid, you pass away, England would have a successor to the throne who would already have an heir. If you lived long enough his son could take the throne. Wouldn’t that be a good thing?’

  Edward had to agree. This idea of Harold’s might spoil his plans but for the moment he would go along with it. After all, it was one thing to suggest Edward the Exile be heir to the throne, quite another to install him.

  ‘So, my Lord, do I have your permission to send an emissary to Hungary to make an offer to Edward?’

  ‘Yes, Harold, you do.’

  Later that summer Hugh Margot, the monk based at Steyning Abbey who had been conveying letters between de Jumieges and Edward, returned from Normandy bringing news. De Jumieges had been to the Vatican to seek an interdict against Stigand, and the Pope’s response had been to name Robert as the rightful Archbishop of Canterbury. But on his return to Normandy, de Jumieges had fallen sick and died. Edward was grief-stricken and gave great sums for the Church to say masses for the Archbishop’s soul. Every day, to his dying day, Edward prayed for his beloved friend.

  Queen Edith simmered with resentment. Would Edward cry if she died? She watched while her brothers and their families thrived; yet another child had been born to Harold in July, a boy called Ulf. Meanwhile, Edward’s failure to produce an heir reflected badly on her, leaving nothing but bitterness eating away at her heart. But at least she was not alone. Tostig was always ready to lend her a sympathetic ear, although she did sometimes wonder if his concern was driven by ulterior motives. He and Judith spent more and more time in the company of the King. Admittedly, since Godwin had died and Tostig had taken up residence in his father’s old hall at Southwark, he was close at hand and so had more opportunity to visit. And whatever his true reasons for being in their company so often, she had to admit his presence made life with the King much more tolerable. When Tostig was around there was laughter in the air and the King was happy. She enjoyed Judith’s company, even if she was a little too pious at times. Having them around took her mind off dark thoughts. When left alone she found herself wondering what it would be like to be a widow. Not so bad, she thought; I could remarry and start a family.

  Business in the North

  That September the court met, as usual, in Gloucester. Absent for the only time since Edward had become King was Earl Siward. He was away in Scotland with his son Osbern, some of the other northern magnates and an army, sent on King Edward’s instructions to assist Malcolm Canmore in his bid to reclaim the crown of Scotland from Macbeth.

  Present at court was a subdued Sir William Malet, who was in England to visit relatives and friends. He seemed preoccupied and a little morose. He sat next to Earl Harold, the man at the English court he felt most able to relate to.

  As the court sat discussing business it was disturbed by the clatter of horses’ hooves amid much shouting and clamour outside. The party could be clearly heard making its way to the great hall. Cospatric, Earl of Cumbria entered, followed by his close friends Gamel and his brother-in-law Wulf Dolfinson. They made their way to the middle of the hall to face the King.

  ‘You arrive in such haste, Earl Cospatric. What’s happened?’ enquired the King.

  ‘Greetings, my Lord. It’s with great pleasure I bring you news of a tremendous victory over Macbeth. Earl Siward put the pretender to flight at Dunsinane and is now back in England with a vast amount of plunder. Malcolm Canmore is in possession of Lothian and is even now pursuing the enemy for the final battle.’

  Space was made for the Earl and his companions on the high table and he sat down on the King’s left where he continued his story.

  ‘It was a fierce battle, my Lord, with heavy losses on both sides. The Scots lost many men, including all the Frenchmen who were forced to leave the country with de Jumieges. Earl Siward paid a high price for his involvement. He lost his son Osbern, who fought like a true hero and died bravely amidst
a fury of Scottish swords.’

  ‘We must be grateful for small mercies,’ was Edward’s only comment. Indeed Edward was grateful; he had every reason to be. True, the plan he had been hatching had not worked out quite the way he had hoped but at least one obstacle was out of the way. It would be interesting to see how the other, older obstacle faired.

  ‘My father has also been killed,’ said Wulf Dolfinson. ‘He died with Osbern.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Wulf. Your father was a great man and will be sorely missed.’

  Cospatric and his comrades continued their stories of battles in the northern kingdom, entertaining the court, well into the night.

  Less than a year after Cospatric and his comrades announced the victory over Macbeth, Earl Siward died. Some said he died of a broken heart caused by the death of his son. He was buried in the church he had had built in York. Waltheof, his only surviving son, was too young to take power. In Northumbria Cospatric, Earl of Cumbria saw himself as Siward’s natural successor but Edward had plans. With the new appointee in mind, he called Tostig to a private meeting.

  ‘Tostig, you and Judith have waited patiently for me to fulfil a promise. Now your time has come… Tostig, Earl of Northumbria! You look surprised,’ said Edward, ‘but you must have guessed I’d offer you the earldom.’

  ‘I confess the idea had crossed my mind but it seemed too much to hope for. How can I thank you?’

  ‘Before you thank me, Tostig, you’ll need to know what’s ahead.’ The King sat back in his throne, placing his elbows on its arms and interlocking the fingers of his hands.

  ‘As you know, after my father died, a vicious civil war broke out between Knut and my father’s son by his first wife, my half brother, Edmund Ironside. One of Edmund’s most loyal supporters was Uhtred, Earl of Northumbria.’