by Justin Hill
Edmund pushed past them. ‘I shall never enter his presence without a sword.’
Ethelred was kneeling on his prayer cushion.
Edmund stood over him. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded.
Ethelred put up his hand so that his chaplain would stop reading.
‘What have you done?’ Edmund’s voice rose, but Ethelred did not like any man standing over him.
‘Do not question me!’ he said.
Father and son glared at each other.
‘The wrong men died tonight.’
‘I did not kill men,’ Ethelred said.
‘Do not hide behind Eadric like a naughty child who hides behind his mother’s skirts. At least have the courage to accept what you have done.’
‘I lanced a boil,’ Ethelred said.
Edmund turned away from his father in disgust. Godwin paused in the doorway, not as certain as Edmund of entering the chapel with a drawn sword.
‘I once counselled Athelstan to rise against you,’ Edmund said in a trembling voice, ‘and to his eternal shame he did not. I shall not make the same mistake.’
‘Go!’ Ethelred raged. ‘I have other sons!’
Edmund strode from the hall and paused for a moment on the stone threshold, as if to consider – or consign those words to memory, to stoke his anger long after. ‘You have no sons like me,’ he said, and slammed the door behind him.
Edmund’s household were riding out of Oxeneford within the hour. Their horses clattered on the polished cobbles, passed out of the south gate and crossed the ford in a shower of cold water. Godwin looked about, as if he expected to see armed men sent to hinder their escape. They did not know which way to ride and Edmund drew them to a halt about a mile from Oxeneford. His hand was shaking.
‘I have done it,’ he said. His face looked terrible. ‘Oh Godwin, what have I done?’
Godwin was as shocked as the prince. He tried to sound enthusiastic, but he did not know yet if this was a good thing. ‘You have done it,’ Godwin said. ‘You will take the throne.’
Edmund’s knuckles were white as he gripped his reins. He turned to Godwin, hurt in his eyes. ‘I have done it,’ he said, in barely a whisper. ‘God forgive me, I have done it.’ After a moment’s pause he said, ‘Will God forgive me?’
‘Of course,’ Godwin reassured him. ‘Keep Him in your heart. Do what He thinks is right. Think of the oaths a king must swear when he takes the throne: to protect the Church, protect the people and uphold the law.’
Edmund crossed himself and said a paternoster. Godwin joined him and soon the whole company had come to a halt and they were reciting the paternoster together.
Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie;
et dimitte nobis debita nostra …
Amen.
‘War!’ Edmund said. ‘He has brought it upon us. What else can we do? The country is doomed. God has long turned his face away from us. If Ethelred was still favoured by God, then He would have been able to heal my brother. I can see it all now. We are being punished for this dreadful man. He is a blight on us all. No wonder God keeps killing my brothers. His will is against him. This is all my father’s doing. It is his fault. From now on there shall be war between us.’
It was a dull May evening in Malmesberie, two weeks since the murders. Gnats were beginning to rise with the river mists, and the gates of St Aldhelm’s Abbey were shut against the world.
Godwin drew his horse to a halt. ‘Open the gates!’ he shouted.
The abbey walls stood silent. A swan paddled out into the dark evening water, spread wide-spreading ripples.
Godwin took a deep breath and called out, ‘Open the gates! In the name of Edmund Atheling!’
A monk’s head appeared. ‘We cannot.’
‘I give orders from Prince Edmund,’ Godwin shouted.
‘And ours come from the king.’
It was an odd standoff because neither side wanted to kill other Englishmen.
The leader of the king’s troops was his door ward Gamal. Inside they held prominent members of Morcar’s and Sigeferth’s families hostage.
‘You saved my life once,’ Godwin called up. ‘I would spare yours.’
But Gamal had sworn to Ethelred just as Godwin had sworn to Edmund: to flee not a foot space, nor weaken in war; to defend folk and fold; to man the shieldburg about my lord, and follow him in the fight as long as I can hold war board.
‘The king has entrusted me with his hostages,’ Gamal shouted back, ‘and Ethelred is still king. These hostages are Morcar’s kin. I cannot allow his hostages to escape, for they will raise war against Eadric and Mercia will go down in flames at this moment when all Englishmen should come together.’
‘You are right,’ Godwin said, ‘but Ethelred cannot unite them.’
‘And you think Edmund can?’
‘Of course. Gamal, you have seen him as well as I. He can fight as well as any man. Gamal, you seem to be a sensible man. Open the gates and let us in. I would not have Ethelred’s soul charged with your blood as well as those of Morcar and Sigeferth.’
But Gamal would not.
Godwin was grim. ‘It will be sad if we have to kill him and all his men, but I will do it if I have to.’
That evening a young monk by the name of Elmer opened a side door and waved to the guards.
‘If you promise to spill no blood within the abbey precincts, I will open this gate when the king’s men are at table.’
Elmer met them that evening with a horn lantern.
‘Remember – no bloodshed!’ he told them.
‘No bloodshed,’ Godwin assured the man behind the candle, but as soon as the door was opened, he and his men pushed past him into the courtyard, swords drawn. They found the king’s men and far outnumbered them. Godwin did not have to speak. They could see that there was nothing they could do. Gamal drew his sword.
‘Put it down, Gamal!’ Godwin shouted, but even as he spoke one of the hotheads struck. A single blow to Gamal’s head and he went down like a stunned ox. Red blood mixed into his year-grey hair.
‘Put your swords away,’ Godwin shouted. ‘Leave him. You! Take this man to the leech-master and pray for his soul for he was a good and honest man. If this man should die his soul will be added to Ethelred’s guilt. Now where are the hostages?’
They were taken to a room full of women. Most of them were short and stout and well-thighed.
‘I am looking for Sigeferth’s widow, Ealdgyth!’ he called.
‘I am here,’ a voice said.
A lady appeared at the top of the stairs. A young woman: small and dark and very pretty, with a turned-up nose and long, dark lashes. ‘You are Godwin, son of Wulfnoth. We have met before,’ she said, and lifted her skirts to come down the stairs, ‘In better days. You came to my hall.’
Sigeferth’s widow was Alderman Elfhelm’s niece. Ealdgyth was chief among the hostages that Ethelred had seized. After the death of so many of their menfolk, her people looked to the daughters and wives to lead them. She was fierce and determined, and vengeful, but at that moment she saw Godwin and smiled pleasantly.
Godwin bowed. ‘I bear tidings from Prince Edmund,’ Godwin said. ‘The prince says, “Greetings to the Lady of Lincolia. Bid her come to my wedding.”’
‘He is getting married?’ Ealdgyth said sweetly.
‘He is.’
‘Oh. Who is the lucky girl?’
Godwin smiled. ‘Why, you.’
The betrothal feast was a boisterous affair. The women of Morcar’s people were large and loud and angry, and there was a rowdy air as they all rode to the church door to be blessed, then hurried off to the feast hall, where the companies mixed: woman and warrior on the benches together.
Some of the women felt they would be better taking sides with the Danes. ‘Knut is married to one of our own, a girl who sat at the loom with us. She was our sister. If Knut becomes king then Eadric will never have a good night’s sleep. We will hunt him down and castrate the bast
ard before we kill him, and all his women and children, and all those dearest to him.’
The women were bloodthirsty and their oaths were furious and cruel. In the end Ealdgyth stood and called for silence. ‘Hush,’ she told them. ‘The fool chatters who talks too much and lets the ale-jug unveil his mind. Why take Danish rule back? When Knut is king he will need to pay his father’s men to go home. How big a tax will they raise? How much can you pluck from your children’s mouths before you regret your words here tonight? Yes, he is married to one of our own. But I am now married to Prince Edmund. And tonight, perhaps, he will plant in my womb the son that will seal our hopes together.’
Edmund galloped north and unfurled his banner in Lincolia. All of Morcar’s folk came to his side. They were burning with anger against the king and Eadric.
‘Will he be able to control them?’ one of the men said.
Was this wise? Godwin did not know. But he said ‘Yes. What else can he do? If he did not take their oaths, they would have supported Knut. Now at least they will fight on our side.’
At Oxeneford the rump of the king’s court went home with the agreement that each man would go back to their shires and stock and ensure that the fyrd was ready to ride at a day’s notice and so bring all the strength of the kingdom to one battlefield. But after the murders of Morcar and Sigeferth the men would have agreed to anything just for the chance to leave their treacherous king and wash their hands of him.
Ethelred banned any mention of Edmund’s name. He gathered Queen Emma and her sons about him and rode south, to his favourite manor of Cosham in Hamtunscir.
Away from the raging puddle of thegns and clergy, life continued much the same. The harvest was half cut, sheaves of wheat stood in the lower fields. Kendra walked up the hillside and saw a flicker of light leap out against the gathering evening. She dismissed it at first as the twinkling of a star or a firefly, but as darkness fell, the light grew stronger and brighter till it was a flickering dot glowing brightly on the southern horizon at the spot where the beacon on Blackdown stood.
The Danes had returned.
CHAPTER THREE
The Rough Wooing
Edmund called on men to abandon the king and come to his side.
No one came. The camp remained deserted.
‘Where are they?’ Edmund demanded as the stared at the empty roads.
‘Give them another week,’ Godwin suggested, but he had a growing sense that Edmund had been wrong to declare against his father. The Danes were here. England should be united, not descending into civil war. The people would scarcely rally to help the next shire from slaughter; they would never rally to fight a futile civil war.
The sense grew stronger and stronger, and by the end of the week Godwin had to speak. He found Edmund outside the hall, once more staring at the deserted roads.
‘Your father was wrong, but you have only strengthened the case of Eadric and the queen. She must be rubbing her hands with glee. This is what she wanted all along. Who knows, maybe she and Eadric conspired against Morcar.’ Edmund had his back to Godwin and did not turn around. ‘We should be fighting the Danes!’ Godwin’s voice rose as he spoke, and the last word was a furious shout that surprised everyone, Godwin most of all. He had put a name to his anger and he stopped abruptly.
Edmund did not like being shouted at.
Godwin had nothing more to say.
Edmund kept his back turned.
Godwin waited. He did not see the point of standing here like a naughty child.
‘Shall I go?’ he said.
Edmund kept his back turned. He simply nodded. Godwin left. He stood at the hall door, ran his hands through his hair and puffed out his cheeks, shut the doorway behind him.
The whole room watched his face. They knew what he had gone to say, and the sound of Godwin shouting had alarmed them all.
‘How went it?’ Caerl asked.
‘Well,’ Godwin said, but to be honest he wasn’t sure yet. ‘I said my piece, and he listened.’
No one dared confront Edmund after that. They sat and watched the rain dripping from the thatch and the puddles grow wider. The horses trampled the turf to a sticky mire; each day Edmund’s cause sank deeper into the mud. Each day they waited for warriors who were not coming. Occasionally news came to them, like scraps tossed to starving men: Ethelred had ridden south to conduct the defence of the kingdom; Eadric had raised his war bands and followed him.
Edmund’s cause remained deserted. The rain did not stop. They tramped the mud into the hall till it was everywhere.
Men spoke less because they could not speak without going against Edmund and they increasingly ran out of words to say, except the bland and the weather-related. It was hard to talk about the rain – save to comment on how long it had gone on for.
‘Good news,’ Edmund exclaimed one morning, and men sat up to listen. ‘My wife is with child.’
There was a muted reaction. It wasn’t the good news they had hoped for.
Edmund threw a feast that night, and Godwin got drunk as a monk as the storm outside grew to a downpour, deeply and joylessly and determinedly drunk. He drank to swamp his despair, but in the morning the despair was waiting, with an awful hangover as well.
Three days later Edmund strode into the hall, where the men sat silently.
‘So,’ he said. ‘It seems the fyrds are not coming.’
No one said anything.
‘It seems not,’ Godwin said, just to break the silence.
‘When will this rain stop?’ Edmund said.
No one spoke.
‘Well, we’re not much use to England sitting in this hole.’
Again, no one said anything. Edmund raised his eyebrows.
‘So,’ he said.
So, they thought.
‘What should we do?’
Godwin was irritated, because he had already said what to do and saw no point in being ignored again, but no one else spoke and everyone looked at him. ‘Well, I have spoken already,’ he said.
They all nodded.
‘What do the rest of you think?’ Edmund said.
One by one – and in many different ways – they supported what Godwin had said. ‘No one wants civil war. The people want a king who will defend them and impose the law.’
‘I am he,’ Edmund broke in, but he could see that they did not agree.
‘You are he,’ Godwin said, ‘and we all know it, but the rest of the country – the men of far-off Dornsætum or Tanet or Cestre – they do not know you from Eadwig or Edward. What do they know of you, other than that you are Ethelred’s son? And no doubt they are so sick of your father they have started to wonder if it isn’t time for a change of royal family. Revolution is in their hearts. They are tired of failure.’
Edmund was silent, but this time he listened and heard and the words sank in.
‘But we have always fought against the Danes.’
‘Yes, we hunted ravagers. But no doubt for each Dane we killed as boys, they killed five Englishmen in return. Let us be honest. It is a lot to ask for men to trust their futures with us. They wouldn’t even trust us with their daughters.’
Men started to smile. Godwin had caught the mood and pricked the gloom with a delicate stab of humour.
Edmund nodded. He had not understood before.
‘So,’ he said at the end of a long discussion, ‘what should we do now?’
Godwin was exhausted. His head hurt. ‘Don’t look at me!’ he said, but they were already. ‘What do we do? Well, we raise Morcar’s folk and we ride south and make peace with your father and devote ourselves to his cause. There are two months before harvest. We could have the Danes beaten before Lammas Day, and then men will take you seriously. Oh, how they will flock to your banner!’
Edmund rode south at the head of five hundred of Morcar’s folk.
People were curious when they saw Edmund riding at the head of a mounted warhost.
‘They’re not used to seeing a royal hea
ding warriors,’ Godwin said. ‘Next morning, let all of us don mail and spear and shield, and we shall impress upon them that we are a warlike company and that you are a warlike prince.’
Next morning they did as Godwin said. It was hot and heavy. The chain mail clinked as it weighed on their shoulders, but men in the fields put down their hoes and scythes and baskets and stared in astonishment.
‘Who are you?’ they called out.
‘I am Edmund Atheling,’ Edmund replied, ‘and we ride to fight the Danes!’
‘Not so few,’ one man said.
‘No, with all the country! Come, fellow, will you follow us?’
The man laughed. ‘No, not yet, but beat the Danes and yes, I will gladly follow you.’
The king was still at Cosham. Edmund sent out messengers offering peace to Ethelred. One of them was Caerl.
He gave Caerl a golden ring that was large enough to fit upon his middle finger.
‘Take my greetings to my father,’ Edmund said, ‘and tell him that I have five hundred fierce warriors to fight on his behalf.’
Caerl took a short-legged courser and arrived at the king’s manor two days later.
Cosham lay a few miles from Portsea Isle, on the fringes of the Soluente. It had broad fields, thick with tall, green corn, a high stone hall and a well-paved road leading to the shore, where the king’s men gathered all manner of shellfish. There Ethelred kept his fleet on the sand flats within the sheltered bay of the Port River. There were thirty warships, all that remained of the fleet he had raised seven years earlier, lying on their sides like lazy cows.
Ethelred welcomed Caerl with gruff words, but Caerl spoke carefully and honestly, and talked more of the Danes and how they were the foe of all Englishmen than he did of Edmund.
‘How can we trust Edmund?’ Queen Emma said.
‘What would he gain by any violence against his old father? None. His enemy is the Danes, who oppress us all. He regrets speaking with haste. He has charged me with these words.’
When Caerl came back to Edmund, they all stood around to hear what he would say.