The Handfasted Wife

by Carol McGrath

  Epiphany, the day of Edward’s funeral and Harold’s coronation, turned out to be bitter, the skies shedding icy sleet. Elditha froze anyone who came close to her. She silently walked with her children and beside Gytha and Edith to the great minster. The Thames was crowded with boats and many stood patiently in the broad space around the palace and on the river, huddled in their cloaks watching. They followed the procession of nobles and clergy that swept from church to palace after the King’s interment, and then a few hours later swept back again for Harold’s coronation. She sensed that both Gytha and Edith looked at her more with pity than joy and she held her head high, determined not to show the weakness she felt. This was Harold’s greatest day and she should be happy, but she could have wept with despair.

  She stood with the others in the nave and watched with them as Harold, the earls’ choice, slowly descended the platform and stood by the altar. He made a threefold promise to the archbishop and to his people, promising to protect the church, maintain good laws and abolish the bad, and dispense justice to all.

  ‘What justice will you dispense to me and ours?’ she whispered to herself, clutching Ulf’s hand tight.

  ‘What are they putting on my father’s head?’ she heard the child ask.

  She looked down at him and said tensely, ‘Sanctified oil, a sign that your father is king and you, Ulf, are now an atheling – a prince, a king’s son – so never, ever do you forget it.’

  When the ceremony drew to a close and the clergy began to process out of the great church, Elditha saw the northern ladies standing together on the opposite side of the nave. The Lady Aldgyth stood in their midst. She thought bitterly: it has happened before when a king has had a handfasted wife. He will put me aside. She closed her eyes and prayed to her name-day saint, ‘I have anger in my heart for him, please help me to contain it. I have pride and I envy that dull girl. Please, dear St Cecilia, beg the good Lord to have pity on your daughter. Help her to face this cruelty. God help us all now.’

  Harold moved into the royal apartments without her. They spoke little to each other. The closeness that they had shared only weeks before had frozen like the bitter earth outside. When the court came to dine in the hall after Harold’s crowning, she watched the demure smiles Lady Aldgyth gave Harold, and she noticed those he bestowed upon that lady in return, while all the time he spoke pleasantly to Elditha, passing the salt cellar or placing morsels of fowl on her plate, choosing her a sweetmeat.

  ‘Harold, we must talk,’ she said when they met in the hall on the following day at dinner.

  He touched her arm, smiled at her sadly and said, ‘Not at the moment. There is so much to do. Soon, Elditha, soon we shall talk.’ Then he hurried away to some earl or other who wanted his attention.

  Gytha tried to comfort her by saying, ‘He will come to you soon. We are the new royal family, my dear. You should rejoice.’ But Gytha knew, and Elditha knew that she knew.

  Again she tried to talk to Harold, and he dismissed her saying, ‘I am burdened with arrangements, my dear. There is no time for anything else, not now.’ But he had time for the pasty-faced widow who had once been wed to Gyffud, a king of the Welsh.

  Three miserable days slid by and then the widowed threat travelled back to the north. Elditha rejoiced, hoping that Harold would be drawn back to her, now that Aldgyth was gone. Her sons came into her chamber for her blessing daily and often they joined her in the minster for evening Vespers. They were filled with excitement lately, not because they were the sons of a king, but because King Dairmaid of Dublin had invited them to reside at his court. They were important now and all their friends and cousins admired them. She realised this but was glad that they were modest too. They made her proud to be their mother. She happily practised her harp, spent time with her children, helped Thea with her embroidery and returned to the bower hall to work on the Garden of Eden tapestry. When she tired of this she encouraged her ladies to fill her own apartment with the clatter of dropping spindles and chatter.

  A few days later, as she was preparing for sleep, she heard Harold’s footstep outside her chamber. She sent Ursula to see if he was there. Ursula returned smiling. ‘The King is on his way, my lady.’

  At last, and what will he say now? ‘Go to the bower hall,’ she barked at her women, and they fled through the doorway curtain like a flock of migrating birds. Harold pushed in as they left and thrust his hands towards the brazier.

  She took a breath and composed herself as she poured him a cup of wine, keeping her hand firm. He accepted and sipped slowly. She poured some for herself, though she would not drink it. She must be measured. She would not keep him with soured words. Yet the Devil perched on her shoulder, urging her to give him a look so sharp her eyes could have sliced through his bones. ‘Why, my lord, has it taken so long for you to remember you have a wife?’ There, it was out.

  He placed his cup on a low table and opened his palms in a supplicant’s gesture. Time froze. She noticed a new gold garnet-studded cross rise and fall on his breast. He said slowly, ‘In the spring I shall ride north and tour the kingdom.’ He sipped the wine. It was a deliberate pause, she thought. At last he said, ‘Elditha, I will speak frankly. In York, I shall wed the Lady Aldgyth. I must, not for love, but for the kingdom.’

  She set her cup on the table, her hand shaking. Red wine splashed over the cloth. She spun round to face him again. He was kneeling before her. ‘I beg you, Elditha, do not make a fuss.’

  ‘Get up, Harold. You do not kneel before me to beg my forgiveness.’

  He stood up and grasped the chair. He was shaking as he shook his head. ‘Elditha, listen to me …’

  ‘No, my lord, I have watched you woo her in front of the whole court. You have betrayed me and our children. Tomorrow, I shall return to Nazeing.’

  He reached out and touched her face. She drew back, frightened, hurt and angry beyond words. She swallowed. She must not weep. There was silence. She waited. ‘Elditha,’ he said at last, ‘I need this alliance. Without the support of Aldgyth’s brothers the kingdom is divided. Without them we are all lost.’

  ‘Why? They cannot make you do this.’

  ‘Yes, they can. We are cousins thrice removed and were handfasted because of it.’ He sank onto their bed, his head in his hands. ‘I am the King now, Elditha, and although I am King, you still remain the mother of our children, but,’ he paused; she waited. ‘You cannot be my queen. And, though I may not wish it, I must wed with Aldgyth.’ His next words were spoken with gentleness, but they cut deeply. ‘A king needs a queen approved of by the Church.’

  She had been thinking for days of what she would say if he brought this up. ‘Then appeal to the Pope. Build him a minster as Duke William did when he wed Matilda of Flanders. They were cousins something removed.’

  ‘Duke William is closer to the Pope than we are here. It is different. Can you not see that I don’t have any taste for this marriage, but marry her, I must. It is only an arrangement.’

  She snapped back at him, ‘An arrangement with Morcar is more important than your own children? Our sons, our daughters too – what will happen to them and to me?’

  ‘Our sons will go to King Dairmaid’s court in Ireland. They will learn to be princes. Thea will remain with her grandmother, where she can prepare for marriage. Ulf and Gunnhild will dwell with you, though soon, perhaps, Gunnhild will join Edith in Wilton for her education.’

  ‘What?’ She was about to retort that Gunnhild would not go to Edith’s household to become a nun – not ever – but he was running on ahead of her.

  ‘Elditha, my dear, for the sake of our children – for us – we must both accept this change in our lives. Others have done so in the past.’ He lifted her hands and held them tight. She felt his strength and she felt her own fragility. She knew that she must make a bargain with him, for the sake of their children and for her own sake too. Theirs had been a long and loving marriage. Slowly, she nodded. ‘But our children must take precedence over her
children. You will swear it to me.’ She lifted her prayer book and thrust it into his hands. ‘Swear it upon this, on St Cuthbert’s prayers. I am not going to quietly vanish into a nunnery. Don’t you think that, my lord.’

  ‘Of course not, the very thought of it, Elditha. Godwin will inherit my kingdom. I swear it.’ He held the prayer book and touched the cross that hung on his breast as if to confirm his oath. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it. ‘I swear it on the holy cross. Godwin will follow me. Elditha, we too can continue if you will still have me.’

  She shook her head. ‘And how is that possible, my lord?’

  She felt him study her and heard him say quietly, ‘Do you remember Reredfelle?’

  ‘How could I forget it? It was the place of our first summer. We conceived Godwin there.’

  He was still holding the prayer book. He laid it down and looked up at her. For a moment everything was still, frozen in the air. She saw a glistening, a gathering of tears, in his great blue eyes. Then he spoke again. ‘And it has been neglected. Do not return to Nazeing. Go to Reredfelle and make it what it used to be. Consider it as one of your own estates, and I will come to you there.’

  ‘When will you come, my lord?’

  ‘I cannot promise a visit soon, but I do promise that I shall come when I can.’

  Promises, crosses and relics betrayed; sinking down beside him on the embroidered coverlet for a moment she watched the brazier glow and the candles flicker. She searched his face. He looked tired. He was weary with the burden of kingship already. The Devil fled from her shoulder and her heart ceased to beat like that of a frightened bird. ‘My estates are in good order. I will do the same for Reredfelle,’ she managed to say with dignity.

  He reached out for her and though she held back, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. ‘That is it, my swan, my love. Do not leave me. Our lives are, for now, buffeted by rough seas.’ He smiled down on her through moist eyes and said, ‘I have gifts.’ He pulled a pouch from his cloak and pressed it into her hand. ‘Conceal this in a safe place. Padar, my skald, will accompany you to Reredfelle. If you need me, send him.’

  She untied the purse cord and drew out six sapphires. They shone pale blue against her linen. She dropped them into her lap. ‘Padar the skald and baubles. I would rather have had you, my lord,’ she said, feeling a monstrous sadness sweep over her and devour her. Tears bit the back of her eyes. She must not allow them to flow.

  ‘And I you,’ he whispered. He withdrew a small, leather-bound book from the lining of his cloak. ‘Whilst we are parted, this will amuse you. See, here is your riddle.’

  She began to smile. Riddles had been a secret language between them. He read the verse about a swan that he had always said was for her. She had drawn strength from that poem. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered into her hair, but she could not forgive; forgive him she would never bring herself to do. For the sake of their family she must accept his proposal, but she was not so easy with her heart.

  She laid the book of verse aside, stood up, walked to the chair and lifted his mantle. There was surprise on his face as she gave it to him. ‘Go, Harold, and God go with you.’ She turned away from him. The room had become chill and the candles had burned low in their sconces. She felt a draught as the tapestry moved. She turned around and he was gone. In that moment of final separation, she knew that she must learn the lessons of loneliness.

  On the day dedicated to St Valentine her cavalcade gathered in the yard. She sat proudly on her mare, wrapped in her ermine-lined cloak. Deep in her saddle-bag she had concealed a precious silver-plated, bone casket containing Harold’s gifts and her collection of ivory figurines of female saints. Over these treasures she had folded the christening robe which she had used for her children, and which, one day, she prayed that she would use again.

  Ulf and Gunnhild peered out of their wagon at the small gathering which had collected to wave them farewell: three brothers, who had tears in their eyes as they watched their departure, Thea and Gytha. As their cart trundled towards the gate leaving tracks in the snow, they turned back and waved again to their grandmother, their cousins and their brothers and their elder sister. Elditha turned and scanned the watching faces, but their father was not there to say goodbye.

  3

  March 1066

  Then throughout all England, a sign such as men never saw before was seen in the heavens. Some men declared it was the star comet, which some men called the haired star.

  The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, March 1066, Worcester Manuscript, edited and translated by Michael Swanton

  Elditha’s company took on a festive mood as they rode through villages that were strung out along the old Roman road south of the river. Padar trotted on a small pony by her side, telling jokes and stories, making her laugh. A heavy cloak of seal skins lined with fur fell over his pony’s rump and halfway down his shins and a sword hilt protruded just above his belt. Every time her eye caught its gleam she felt safe. Why would I not, she whispered to herself, as she trotted on Eglantine along the snow-packed road; there is a warrior bard on one side. She glanced sideways, and on my other an armour-clad Norfolk thane. Osgod was his name, she remembered, a loyal Godwin servant too. Furthermore 30 of Harold’s own house-ceorls rode close to the 20 long-wagons carrying her children, her ladies, her house-ceorls’ families, her servants, cooks, grooms and even a beekeeper and a gardener; in others there were her tapestries and furniture, including the oak bed and feather mattress that she had shared with Harold.

  From time to time, Padar rode up and down this line of lumbering carts, chivvying their drivers and checking the snow-packed road for obstacles. The sun climbed high in the winter sky, and the ceorls munched bread as they sat in their saddles, drank ale from leather flasks and threw pennies to peasants they encountered in villages. Thankful for these, the villagers called blessings and greetings to the company as they passed.

  Her children shared a covered long-wagon with their nurse, Margaret, and Elditha’s three ladies. In the afternoon a light snow fell and, for a while, the children leaned out to catch the flakes and watch them melt on their fingers, but soon they became too cold and retreated into the fur-piled depths of their wagon.

  The cavalcade entered the wild wood where trees closed in on them. It was difficult to drive the carts forward on the frozen, rutted woodland paths. Deeper into the wood, the light faded to grey and it grew very cold. Soon they were lost. The children in the convoy began to whine that they were hungry and Elditha’s ladies complained saying that they must stop, that the wives, children and servants, all needed to rest. Osgod rode ahead. Eventually he cantered back pointing through the trees, ‘There it is. I knew there was an old hunting hall here. It is our stopping place. Back to the fork! We have missed the track in.’

  It was not easy to turn all the cumbersome wagons back along the track, but slowly and carefully, one by one they were turned around and they returned the few miles to where the road had forked. The long thatched hall nestled in a large clearing. Through the fading twilight Elditha saw a simple timbered building with tiny shuttered windows. Huts were clustered around the main hall and piles of wood were stacked in every open space. Smoke twisted into the darkening sky.

  As they approached the buildings, a wolf began to howl. Another echoed the first and another, their cries so mournful and prolonged that the children clutched each other’s cloaks, her ladies shrieked and her ceorls froze in their saddles. Elditha shuddered, tried hard not to be frightened and turned her mare’s head, thinking to reassure her children. Here they were open to the trees and the dangers that lurked among them.

  Padar reached out and touched her arm. ‘There is a pack of wolves out in those woods but never worry, my lady, they are far off.’ He lifted his hand to signal the carts to follow them into the compound. Once the wagons filled every open space close to the hall, he said, ‘We’ll set fires and a guard on the horses tonight.’

  Their horses snorted, breathing clouds of stea
m and restlessly stamping their hooves in the snow. The charcoal-burners that lived in the huts surrounding the old hall came hurrying from the trees carrying torches. They stared first at the gleaming mail of the house-ceorls and then they gazed at the fur-cloaked lady who was seated on her mare, her flaxen plaits bound with rich jewels. Osgod broke the silence. ‘This is your King’s lady. We need shelter.’

  Their leader waved his flaming torch towards the long building behind. ‘My lady, the hall is warm and dry. I care for it for Lord Athelwold when he is at his Winchester house. There are alcoves curtained off at the back. Our fare is simple … a stew of grain and onions …’ he started to say, ‘but what we have –’

  She broke in, ‘We have food in our carts and servants to cook it. You must save your stew for your wives and children.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’

  The thane called for the servants to make fires in the open. Soon they had a pottage of meal, salted beef, herbs and onions bubbling in a dozen cooking pots. They ate inside the long building, sitting on the hearth benches. After supper, Elditha sang her children to sleep in the curtained chamber to the back of the hall. She drifted out into the hall again and over to the hearth, where Padar had been strumming his harp. She was too awake to sleep. The wolves’ howls had long since ceased and a woodsman said that the creatures must have moved deeper into the forest away from the fires. Lady Ursula asked if anyone in their company had seen a wolf. ‘Of course, how do you think we get wolf skin rugs for our halls?’ was the reply.

  Then one said, ‘There is nothing finer than a silver wolf cloak, Lady Ursula. One day I shall find you one, if you wed me.’

  Elditha took Ursula’s hand in her own when Ursula looked down, embarrassed by the man’s attention. Padar strummed his harp. He stopped after a few moments and said, ‘But, of course, a wolf can be dangerous. It is two-faced, just like many people I have known.’ He glanced sharply about the faces that were illuminated by firelight. ‘You all seem loyal to your lady, though if any of you were not I would feed you to those wolves myself.’ Then he chuckled at his own joke.