The Handfasted Wife

by Carol McGrath

  There was a long, long silence. Elditha broke it. ‘My lord, you have clearly come to bring us to safety.’

  ‘If I can,’ he said, ‘but first Countess Gytha must pay the tax and then she must negotiate that you, Thea and I will leave. It is the only way to break this siege.’

  ‘We must all leave,’ Thea said. ‘My grandmother, all of her ladies, everyone must leave. Grandmother has friends in Flanders, Denmark and Norway. We have cousins everywhere.’

  ‘So, Earl Connor, you tell us to treat with Duke William?’ Elditha said.

  ‘Because we must, because Exeter has turned its back on their Countess. You know, two days ago I heard that the soldiers up on this very wall taunted the enemy and bared their arses to them. Then they poured oil and pitch down on them. They had courage.’

  The Earl smiled at her story. ‘Yet the Countess must now treat with the enemy. Pitch and boiling oil will not keep them from the gates.’

  There were scalding tears in the back of her eyes. She turned away and began to descend the wall steps down into the orchard.

  Later that day Earl Connor passed several hours alone with Countess Gytha. When they emerged from her antechamber Gytha’s face was inscrutable. Elditha could not discern her intentions, nor did she speak of any, and nor did Earl Connor. He took himself to the Bishop’s palace and did not return until well after night had fallen. That evening, although Elditha longed to be comforted by him – to talk about her sons – the Earl kept company with Padar and Alfred.

  Before Nones on the following day, accompanied by the burghers of Exeter, Bishop Leofric came once again into Gytha’s hall. Gytha descended the dais and banged her stick hard on the stone floor with such a fury that its gryphon head flew off and a second stick had to be fetched for her.

  She then began a determined speech to the thanes and merchants that stood angrily before her. She reminded them of who they were; they were freemen of England. Englishmen were never subject to Normans. ‘There will be no more of this. No agreement with the enemy. No talk with William. No fealty oaths. He’ll give your trade to his own. Your daughters will be raped and married off to common soldiers. Your sons will be pressed into their army, like those foolish traitors in their camps out there. The bastard son of a bastard mother will hang you all. And, if he doesn’t, when my grandsons arrive to relieve us come sailing time, if even one of you betray this town, you will all be dead men.’

  Elditha leaned forward from her bench. She could read their faces. She could see that the burghers of Exeter understood that in order to possess a future they must accept the new rule. Their old world was gone. It had gone two years before with the death of King Edward. The Normans had come and they intended to remain.

  Bishop Leofric spoke up for the Normans. ‘They rule much of Christendom, my lady Countess. They promise us cathedrals as grand as those in Normandy and in my heart I know that God wills it so.’

  A chill penetrated Elditha. She gave her hand to Thea and whispered, ‘What is she thinking? She must know it is over here.’ Thea shook her head. Tears ran down her cheeks. The female members of the Godwin family, including four distant cousins, two ageing aunts and Hilda, all bowed their heads and sighed a collective sigh. Their resistance had run its course. They too must look to the future.

  For a moment, the Bishop glanced their way. His eyes appeared to pop nervously from his loaf-like face. He lifted his hand, his plump fingers quivering, and pointed a fat ringed finger at the Countess. His voice quavered as he said, ‘Countess. You are responsible.’ He waved his hand towards the women. ‘Think of your own family. Consider the fate that awaits these women if you continue to flout the rules. God have mercy on you.’ With these words he turned and walked away, leading the band of grim-faced merchants and thanes. Their faces bore the sombre hardness of men who had had enough and would never bend to Gytha’s will again.

  As they sat abandoned by the Bishop, Elditha imagined the arching beams above pressing down, pushing them all into oblivion. Gytha’s face seemed as if it was carved in stone, her anger frozen by the Bishop’s retaliation.

  Elditha rose first. ‘Come, Mother, you need to rest; a draught of poppy perhaps.’

  Slowly Gytha leaned down and retrieved her jewel-headed stick. She drew her back up straight and addressed Elditha, ‘Go and find your distaff, girl.’ Without another word, she tapped her way out of the hall.

  Alfred was on watching duty again. The Normans moved their mangonels forward, closer than ever to the town. That night was so bitterly cold that even his sheepskin mantle felt thin. Alfred walked up and down, 30 paces forward and 30 paces back. A man beside a brazier looked at him as he passed, as if asking for reassurance. Rumour ran along the walls like a snake slithering through the tall grasses by the river below. The siege was close to its end. They feared for their future, but Earl Connor had assured the sergeant that no gate would open before a settlement was reached.

  A roaring sound came from beneath them. It felt as if giants of ancient times were knocking on the door of the world. Something cracked and stones crashed. There were shouts from beyond the ditch. Alfred looked over. His men did likewise. Dust and soil rose up towards them.

  ‘They are mining,’ Alfred yelled.

  He sent Padar to rouse the Countess. Padar raced along the wall and down the orchard steps and into the hall, shouting for her. She arrived wrapped in Godwin’s bear-skin cape. When she heard that the mining had begun, she sent for Bishop Leofric and collapsed into her chair. For the first time since the siege had begun, Elditha saw Gytha’s tears flow.

  The next morning Earl Connor bravely rode from the palace, through the town gate and into the camp, carrying Gytha’s pennant. By Sext the tunnelling had stopped. William pulled his mangonels back. Later that day, he entered the town escorted by Alain of Brittany and a small guard. The gates closed behind him. He met Countess Gytha, Bishop Leofric and the burghers of Exeter in the Bishop’s palace. Elditha remained in the hall with the other women. She did not welcome an encounter with Alain of Brittany. Not long after, the Normans rode back to their camp. Negotiations for the women’s exile had begun. The King agreed that part of the arrangement would be the removal of the Godwin women, their personal wealth in Exeter and their own servants. In return, he promised to guarantee the safety of Exeter’s citizens.

  When Gytha called her women together to tell them, Elditha left the hall by a side entrance to seek the quiet of the garden. She was coming to a decision of her own. She could not leave England, but she needed to consider Thea’s future. Gytha intended to travel to Flanders, not Ireland. She might even continue to her native Denmark. Perhaps Swegne would make sure that the beautiful Thea married well.

  Branches littered the pathways. Fencing, broken by the storm, had collapsed upon itself. Winter herbs had been flattened. Yet a tiny chapel dedicated to the Lady Mary had survived with its glass windows intact. Inside the priest had lit candles and now they glowed in two small haloes. As she watched them flicker she remembered that today was Candlemas. Later they would bring their old candles to the cathedral and distribute them to the poor. Bishop Leofric would announce to everyone that the siege had ended and they would give thanks that the town had not been sacked. As she thought of that, she anxiously paced the garden again. But she had made her decision. She would not return to Ireland and Thea would remain with Gytha.

  She heard twigs cracking and looked to see Earl Connor approaching her. He was on her pathway. He had reached her. Bending down, he picked up a branch before she trod on it. ‘Elditha, I must speak with you alone,’ he said.

  ‘My lord?’ She was sure that she was making the right decision. She had heard him tell Gytha that although the Normans had won the battle they had not yet won England. Whether that was true or not, it had consoled Gytha. Now she must work out her own future.

  She led Connor to a stone bench. He removed his cloak, a muddy-coloured serviceable garment, and spread it over the stone so she could sit. She looked up
at the soldiers on the parapet above and said, ‘The Normans have stopped the tunnelling, but if they wanted to they could break through our gates today. They could still break faith with us.’

  ‘They believe that the Countess will give in to the wishes of her Bishop. If she changes her mind, she will see everything she cares for ruined. Your sons will come in the summer, but any attack we make then must be co-ordinated for it to have hope of success. If the English resistance lacks co-ordination, it is doomed. We must pull it together from every corner of the realm.’

  ‘And King William says that the Countess cannot remain in Exeter,’ she said sadly.

  ‘None of you can.’ He placed his hand over Elditha’s.

  ‘Connor, I have not seen my youngest child Ulf for so long that his face is fading from my memory. I won’t return to Ireland now. I must find him.’

  ‘Elditha, I would like to help you. Would you consider giving yourself over to my protection?’

  She shook her head. ‘We are friends, Connor, just that.’

  He looked sorrowful and for a moment she thought she might change her mind, but he lifted her hand and kissed the yellow stone on the silver ring he had given her. ‘So I do mean something to you, Elditha. And I shall always be yours in friendship. If you should one day … if you could change your mind … I can hope?’

  But it was too late for love. Harold came between them. His memory hovered with her and about her. Though she did not say it and though he had hurt her deeply, so deeply she could not quite forgive him, her heart had always belonged to a fair-headed warrior who had borne a swan-shaped birthmark on his body and a bracelet tattoo on his thigh. Harold Godwin was hers alone, even where he dwelled among angels. The spinners at the foot of life’s tree had spun her fate. She could not marry Connor of Meath, though he was more than worthy of her.

  ‘You have never left him?’ Connor asked, breaking their silence.

  ‘You are a reader of thought, my Lord of Meath.’ She looked down at his hand that still held hers. ‘But I believe that I have come to a decision. I shall enter a contemplative life here in the land I have loved.’

  ‘There are safer nunneries in Ireland.’

  ‘No, my lord, I shall ask permission to enter the convent at St Augustine in Canterbury. And, if that is permitted, my life will continue in a peaceful manner.’ She slipped her hand from his. A smile played on her lips. ‘There, I can pass my hours embroidering gold and silver copes for the Archbishop. But, in Canterbury, I shall be close to my old estate of Reredfelle. And there I shall wait to see Ulf set free.’

  ‘What about Thea?’

  ‘Thea shall remain with her grandmother and her aunt. I think if Gytha guides it, she might have a hopeful future. And maybe I can visit her.’

  ‘And if your sons are restored to their kingdom?’

  ‘I shall be in Canterbury waiting for them when they come.’ She met his steady gaze. He was a good listener. ‘And I pray that we too will speak with each other in better times, in a time when there is peace in the land and you can come to England.’ There was such relief in this unburdening. She whispered, ‘Thank you, thank you, Connor for believing in me. By listening to me now, you are helping me to understand myself.’ She stood, leaned up and lightly kissed his cheeks, first one, and then the other. Then she walked back into the hall to tell Gytha and Thea what she had decided. Now was the time for her daughter to take care of the Godwin christening gown. Thea would travel with it to another land where her daughter and, in time, her daughter’s eldest daughter, would protect this precious heirloom.

  Two days later the sun shone in a flawless sky. The house-ceorl commander as well as Earl Connor and Ursula attended Gytha as they waited on the Bishop to hear William’s agreement. Bishop Leofric made Gytha comfortable in his best padded chair, where she drank wine from a fine glass tumbler.

  ‘So, Bishop, we are drinking the last of your English wine. Send out your negotiators to William the Bastard. These are my terms.’

  When she had finished, the Bishop nodded. ‘My daughter, I believe that you are making the best decision. We can treat with the King.’

  ‘King? Bastard he was born and bastard he remains.’

  Leofric ignored that comment. Instead he said, ‘The relics you promise will remain safe in the minster, and as part of our terms I continue as the Bishop of Exeter. Now, as for Lady Elditha,’ he added after a discreet cough, ‘was there not talk of marriage?’

  ‘Yes, to God. You will see that her wishes are observed and that her safety in Canterbury is guaranteed. She is not the first and she will not be the last to choose the convent. Moreover, she brings to St Augustine a portion of my wealth. The Bastard has stolen her own.’

  ‘Let us see what we can arrange.’

  He made a steeple of his fat hands. Gytha noticed the opal Earl Godwin had given him, roosting like a small plump pigeon on his middle finger. She could feel Leofric gloating and, in that moment, she decided that if her grandsons regained their kingdom, Bishop Leofric would never enjoy Godwin favour again.

  41

  And here Gytha, mother of Harold, travelled away to the Isle of Flatholme, and the wives of many good men with her, and lived there for a certain time and so went over the sea to St Omer.

  The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles , March 1068, edited and translated by Michael Swanton

  Alain of Brittany set out for Wilton. There were some details concerning the ladies’ exile that he needed to discuss with dowager Queen Edith. On his arrival, the abbey lay peacefully under a misty winter shroud. By Vespers he was comfortably closeted with Queen Edith in an antechamber warmed with charcoal that glowed comfortingly through lattice-worked braziers. On the table lay a manuscript. Edith followed his eyes as they lit on the parchment, noticing how he was drawn to the elegant acanthus stems that curled around the capital “E” of “Edward, Rex”.

  ‘It is very beautiful. My niece Gunnhild drew it,’ she said with pride. In a brusquer manner she turned away from the manuscript and bade him sit and drink a glass of hippocras. ‘Now, Count Alain, what news do you bring?’

  ‘It is the King’s wish that your mother must go into exile.’

  ‘She is elderly and harmless.’

  ‘Not so. She is dangerous and cannot be trusted. The King will allow her and her women their freedom if you send word to Flanders on her behalf. For now, they will go to the island of Flatholme, in the channel out of Bristol. But they are not to travel on to Ireland.’

  Edith raised an eyebrow. ‘Why ever not? Her grandsons dwell in Ireland.’

  ‘King Dairmaid harbours traitors.’

  ‘I see. My mother is a wealthy woman and she will want to see my niece, Thea, married out. Out of England, I mean, since Lady Elditha’s lands and manors have been forfeit.’

  ‘Arrange Countess Gytha’s transfer from Flatholme to Flanders and the Countess may keep her treasures, but for her own use alone and not to be used to plot further rebellion. Her granddaughter’s dowry is none of our concern.’

  Edith paced the room. There really was no choice but to agree. ‘I shall write it. And Elditha? My information is that she is in Exeter after all.’

  ‘Indeed. I had understood her to be in Ireland, according to that rogue Beorhtric. And the skald too managed to escape Beorhtric’s guard last year. One wonders about these English thanes’ loyalty. But, as for the lovely Lady Elditha,’ he paused, ‘she is to enter a nunnery.’

  ‘In the house at Wilton?’ Edith raised a quizzical eyebrow. She was not so sure that she wanted responsibility for Elditha. The idea of her close to Gunnhild irritated.

  ‘No, Canterbury.’

  ‘St Augustine?’

  He nodded and added with a hint of sarcasm, ‘She intends to wed with Christ.’

  ‘Ah, there lies a surprise. What of my nephew, Ulf?’

  ‘Ulf will remain in Normandy and continue to be treated well, as long as his mother and the Countess conform. The boy is to be educated as a Norman.’
r />   ‘His nurse, the woman Margaret?’

  ‘The woman is to marry a merchant. She is still young.’

  ‘And you, Count Alain, who will you marry now?’

  He looked away. ‘That remains to be seen.’ He looked down at the scroll. ‘Your little niece really has a talent. They say that once English nuns were calligraphers. It is not often you see that, nowadays.’

  ‘And that is a pity. It seems that the world of men has encroached deep into our lives. One day they will be stitching in our bowers.’ She reached out for a morsel-sized almond pastry.

  ‘Not this one,’ he replied with a hint of sarcasm in his voice and sipped his wine.

  That night Edith wrote two letters and sealed them both. Things had turned out rather well. Her mother had survived. Elditha was to take vows in Canterbury. Who knew what Thea would choose? She smiled to herself. Gunnhild would remain here with her and that was enough.

  Edith thought about her great work, her family biography. These new stories were for others to tell. Her scribes would write only her memories of her father, Earl Godwin, her brothers, Swegne, Harold and Tostig and, most importantly, those of her sainted husband who had ruled England for many peaceful years. Contented with this thought, she drifted into sleep. Over the abbey fields and beyond the distant hills, a last snowfall was cleansing the land, coating everything with virginal white. That night she slept peacefully.

  Epilogue

  October 1090

  Sisters, you have long listened to this story and as we are nearing its ending let me tell you now about Ulf.

  For many years Elditha dwelled in Canterbury. A long time ago she heard news of her older sons. They returned to the south-west in the summer of 1068 but had little support; they are now in Denmark. Her daughter Thea has married a prince of Novgorod. She is a great princess, with a child whom she has named Harold. Gunnhild, well, that is a story for another day. It is a great scandal, for she has eloped with that Breton knight, Count Alain – old enough now to be her father. No one knows where he has taken her; perhaps he has hidden her away in a dark, turreted castle in Brittany. If so, it is a terrible secret.