‘My Lord Earl, that is most kind of you, but where can I put you? Your sons have our other chambers.’ The Abbess’s concern showed clearly in her expression. Wilton was a place that relied heavily on noble patronage; it could not afford to offend anyone, least of all the King’s mother or the Earls Godwine, Swegn and Harold.
‘One of them will share.’ Godwine gazed expectantly across the room at his eldest, Swegn, whose answering, lazy smile was uncharacteristically co-operative.
‘No problem. I’ll go in with Harold.’
Within the half of an hour the Earl’s personal belongings were removed from one chamber to another and Emma was settling herself, washing her face and hands from a bowl of warmed, rosescented water, changing travel-stained garments for fresh robes. Her journey to Wilton had been annoyingly interrupted by a series of delays ranging from a lame horse to a fallen bridge, washed away by the recent rain. Her intention had been to arrive earlier in the afternoon, preferably before Earl Godwine – but no matter, as long as her meeting with him appeared to be by chance . . .
Emma contemplated her reflection, distorted slightly by the curve of the silver hand mirror. She was still a handsome woman, despite four and fifty years of more disappointments than happiness. The lines creased around her blue eyes, mouth and chin, and the predominance of silver in what had once been sun-gold hair, added wisdom to her looks, not age. Her cheeks were more hollow than a few years ago, and her long, slender hands were wrinkled and brown-flecked, with knuckles that were beginning to bend and ache. But her mind was as alert as ever it had been; her thoughts as quick, her expectations as high.
The succession of tragedies, the broken hopes, the faded dreams, had all taken their toll of her energy, and occasionally her will to go on. But Emma was descended from a warrior race, the North Men, the Viking seafarers, and like those infamous ancestors she was a fighter, one who would unflinchingly face death rather than admit to the shame of defeat.
And she would not, would not, be defeated by the spineless toadspawn that was her only surviving son, Edward!
She flicked her fingers at her handmaid, indicating that she was ready to have her veil fastened in place and leave her chamber, to join Godwine and his family. With a smile that barely touched her lips, she took a small, moderately valuable brooch from her jewel box. A gift for Edith. Nothing, no action, no word, must give the impression that this meeting was anything but coincidence. Edward had his spies, he mistrusted her as much as she did him – perhaps he was not so much the fool after all? Left to make his own decisions, he was an incompetent, but as king he had the benefit of older and wiser men to advise him. Men like the Earls of Mercia and Northumbria, shrewd men, who mistrusted the easy friendship that existed between Godwine and the woman who had once held the reins of power in England. And, despite his personal inadequacies, Edward knew only too well the extent of his mother’s capabilities. Aye, if the Queen wished to have a confidential word with Earl Godwine it must be done with great care.
Just in case Edward found the sense to listen to advice and had employed someone to watch her.
The bed-chamber door closed with a shuddering bang, the ensuing draught sending the lamplight twisting and flickering. As he entered and crossed to a table on the far side, Swegn’s distorted shadow leapt grotesquely against the richly embroidered wall coverings. ‘Wine?’ he asked, his voice loud in the quiet of the room. Not waiting for an answer, he poured two generous goblets.
Harold closed the bed fur tighter round his body, willing sleep to return.
‘You’re not asleep, are you?’ Swegn turned to face the bed, incredulous; it was not yet the tenth hour. He strode across the room, pulled back one of the partially drawn bed curtains and roughly shook the mound that was Harold. ‘I want to speak with you.’
Emerging from the furs, Harold blinked wearily. He had known sharing a chamber with Swegn would not be a good idea. ‘I’m tired.’ He yawned. ‘Today I had a long ride, tomorrow I have another. The lure of sleep, Swegn, is more enticing than conversation with you. Can it not wait until morning?’
Swegn proffered the goblet in his hand. Harold sighed, swung his legs from the bed and pulled one of the furs around his shoulders. With the brazier offering only a dull, half-hearted glow, the room was chill and draughty, with tendrils of a northerly wind scurrying beneath the ill-fitting door and through numerous cracks in the timber walls. Several of the tapestries were rippling, restless, nudged by the constant irritation.
Swegn selected wood from the pile and chivvied the reluctant fire into life. Going back to the table, he lifted his own goblet, took a deep swallow, licked his lips and wiped the residue from the trail of his moustache with the back of his hand. He had already drunk well all evening, but there was always room in his belly for more. ‘Wilton has two things worth this annual, tedious family reunion.’ He drank again, belched. ‘The lure of untouched virgins and the best wine in all England.’
Harold sipped at the goblet in his own hand, tucking the fur tighter around his legs. He wore woollen braies and stockings, but still his feet were cold. With his brother’s second comment he could not disagree, but for the first? Ah, Swegn had never been one for minding his manners.
‘What is it you want?’ Harold queried. Another yawn, wide and lingering, rippled through him. He brushed bleary tears of tiredness from his eyes.
‘Want? I want nothing.’ Swegn’s protest came too quickly. ‘I wish to talk, brother to brother.’ His accompanying smile was intended to be reassuring; to Harold it was more of a leer. ‘Earl to earl.’
Harold did not believe a word of it. ‘Talk? About what?’ When had they ever talked, as opposed to quarrelled? As young men? Harold could not remember a time when the two had exchanged conversation for the simple pleasure of it. As boys? Incessant squabbling in childhood, mostly at Swegn’s instigation, had put an end to any prospect of brotherly companionship. If they had never been friends as children, what hope had they, as grown men, of seeing eye to eye?
‘How are you finding East Anglia? It is a rich earldom, is it not?’ Swegn hooked the room’s only stool nearer the brazier with his foot, seated himself close to its meagre warmth. His next comment held a tinge of the jealousy that had ever haunted his life. ‘You have ample opportunity for expanding your purse, I would wager.’
Harold did not rise to the jibe. ‘Aye,’ he said indifferently, ‘wool, salt and corn, among other industries, provide well enough for a king’s revenue.’
The King’s revenue. Taxation. Two inescapable curses of both rich and poor: famine, and taxes. Only a king was certain of a full belly and enough gold to fill the household coffers. And in return for overseeing their designated portions of the King’s realm the earls
– providing they stayed in favour – received a handsome share of those taxes. Except, in Swegn’s considered opinion, some had a more prosperous share than others.
East Anglia, because of its greater size and location, was wealthier than his own fluctuating Borders. Trade flourished in East Anglia, an area of wide skies sailing above fertile land, land which abutted the eastward coast, with safe harbours and bustling ports; land traversed by tranquil rivers and dotted with established, profitable farmsteadings. What had he, Swegn, to his name? Hostile forests and isolated towns cowering behind timber fortifications, all overshadowed by the damned, persistent raiding of the Welsh. And drenched by incessant rain.
‘Constant patrolling ensures that my purse remains thin.’ Swegn swilled the last dregs of wine around his goblet, watching the pattern of red liquid swirl against the silver. He looked up at his brother, the accusation there behind his voice. ‘Edward favoured you more than me when he gave you the peaceful fenlands of East Anglia.’
Harold’s angry response came unchecked. He leapt to his feet, sending wine splashing over the rim of his cup. ‘Peaceful? The Fens? Do you know how many Viking raiding parties we chased offshore last month? Do you know how much trade has been lost to pirates cruising my
coast, like basking whales? Three families were butchered but last week at Maldon . . .’
‘Only three?’ Swegn retorted with a sneer. ‘I have lost more than three and twenty to the Welsh!’ He had been about to jump to his feet also, but he fought down the impulse. He could not, on this occasion, afford to quarrel with his brother. Taking a deep breath, he patted the air soothingly with a palm. ‘Nay, I do not want argument. Of course you have problems with our Scandinavian cousins, but you have a fair income to counterbalance your costs. Between them, the two Welsh princes of north and south are bleeding me dry. Gryffydd ap Rhydderch, of the south, Deheubarth, is the worst offender.’
In no mood for hard words, Harold sank back on to the bed. It was late, he wanted to sleep. ‘Can you not contain the border raiding? Surely, with the men of the fyrd, you have adequate resources to keep watch on those few crossing places over the Severn river?’
‘What? The whole year round? There is a limit to how many weeks the fyrd will be called out and these Welsh are wild mountain men, brother, they do not respect inclement weather, as would you or I.’ Swegn drained his wine. ‘What I need to do is hit at them, hard. Burn a few of their farms, slaughter their cattle, take their women and children as slaves.’ Swegn stood, walked with quick strides to stand before his brother. ‘I need to take an English army into Wales, teach Gryffydd a lesson that he will not forget.’
‘Good idea.’ Harold mumbled drowsily.
Swegn reached forward to grasp his brother’s arm. ‘I have just come from the Queen, from Emma. She has promised me handsome financial aid. If you provide the additional men I need, I can—’
Harold jerked awake, sat up. ‘What!’
‘I need men. Your men. I have not the ability to furnish an army from my own paltry earldom. With Emma’s promised aid I can have gold to arm them, to feed them, all I need is the men . . .’
Harold thrust Swegn aside, scrabbling to his feet. ‘Are you moonmad?’
‘How else can I protect my wealth? I do not have the easy picking that you have been given, brother!’ The rage was swelling, red and blotched, over Swegn’s face.
Ignoring the last insult, for in his anger he had barely heard it, Harold bellowed an answer. ‘And what will the King make of such an army?’
‘To protect his realm from the heathen Welsh?’ Swegn’s retort was scathing. ‘He will welcome it!’
‘Two earls of the same kindred combining their power? Aided by his mother’s gold? You fool!’ Harold stormed to the far side of the room, as if to distance himself from his brother’s stupidity. ‘Edward will assume us – you – to be gathering an army against him.’
Swegn flapped a hand dismissively. ‘ Nonsense.’
‘Are you so inane? Why do you think Emma is here at the same time as our father? She knows full well that we come to Wilton on this date to visit our sister. Her arrival was no coincidence – though Edward would be hard pushed to prove it so. She will fund you, Swegn, but not to furnish an army for Wales. When Edward decides to move against his mother’s meddling in royal affairs our father must side with the King. She is here, mark my words, with the hope of enticing the most powerful earl in all England to support her.’ Harold crossed back to the bed, retrieved his boots from where he had left them beneath it, lifted his cloak and scabbard from a hook in a timber wall post. ‘I would prefer to spend the night with our youngest brothers. They sleep more soundly than do you.’ He strode to the door, opened it, looked back over his shoulder, said, ‘I would assume our father has already rejected the Queen’s plea for aid. You, on the other hand, by supplying her with an army, have walked right into her political web.’ He stepped through the door, adding, as he began to walk again, ‘Treason, when kings come to hear of it, is not rewarded well, brother. Think on that.’
5
London King Edward sat huddled beneath the heavy weight of his cloak, his hands stuffed beneath his armpits in a futile attempt to keep the bite of cold from his fingers. He was certain his toes had already dropped off, for he could no longer feel them, although his doe-hide boots, like the cloak, were well lined with warm squirrel fur. A swirl of wind-driven rain spattered down the smoke hole in the thatched roof of this, his King’s Hall, the curl of smoke from the hearth fire billowing in sullen clouds beneath the high dust and cobwebdraped rafters. The glistening drops of rain sizzled and hissed into the sulking flames below. This was a dismal place, Edward thought, a creaking, smoke-blackened, wind-battered, timber-built archaic old building. The palace of London – huh! He had never much liked it, nor even as a child when his father, Æthelred, had sat here in this very same royal chair. All those years ago he had regarded this Hall as cold and unwelcoming. A king’s palace? Peasant’s bothy more like! In Normandy the grand dukes built their fortified residences of stone. Stone that was hard to penetrate by wind and army. Stone that displayed strength and grandeur. And permanence. He would build in stone one day, when he could muster the funding. When his damned mother let go her clutch over the royal treasury.
He dabbed at his nose with the edge of his cloak, certain he was beginning a head cold; his throat felt sore and dry, nose running and swollen, his temples throbbed. Mind, his head always ached whenever Emma was present.
Glowering, Edward looked across at her, seated on her queen’s throne a few yards to his left, sited, at his ordering, as far along the dais as was possible. She sat erect, resplendent in her robes, precious jewels sparkling. The council of earls and nobles sat arrayed semicircular before the dais, most eyes not on him, but fixed on the figure of the Queen. He shifted, on this uncomfortable, hardbacked, hard-seated throne, shivering, pulling the cloak tighter around his chest, as the debate swirled around him. Each speaker disagreed with the last, the argument going fruitlessly round and round. Not one of them bothered to ask him, the King, for his opinion on the matter. All seemed to defer to his mother’s view, even those who usually disagreed with her as a matter of course – notably Siward and Leofric. Irritated at being ignored, Edward pouted. ‘I do not want Stigand to be appointed as bishop of East Anglia, Mother. He is of your choosing, not mine.’
The talk faded as eyes and attention turned to the King. Emma exhaled slowly, holding hard to her patience. What did he know of the delicate task of appointing a new bishop? If the wrong man were to be put in the wrong place – God’s breath, such ineptitude could, overnight, deliver irretrievable power direct into the hands of Rome!
‘My Lord King,’ she said, a thick mask of honey disguising her annoyance, ‘I do but use my years of acquired wisdom to advise you. Stigand is a talented and able cleric with an acute grasp of politics.’ She smiled pleasantly at her son, though the expression was difficult to maintain. Her fingers itched to slap the peevish defiance from his sullen cheeks; to control her hands she curled her grip around the lioness-heads that formed the carved arms of her chair. Cnut had ordered it made for her, soon after their marriage. He had been a magnificent king, Cnut, strong in body, wise, determined yet open to well-constructed argument. Would England ever see his like again? Not in her son, that was for certain.
‘My Lord.’ With a modest cough to attract attention, Godwine came to his feet. ‘This matter has now been discussed at great length. We all’ – and he swept his hand around the semicircle of men – ‘agree that you require a man whose loyalty can be relied upon without question—’
‘Loyalty?’ Edward interjected with a stab of petulant sarcasm. ‘To whom?’
‘Why’ – Godwine spread his hands, innocently puzzled – ‘to you, Lord. You are the King. To you, and to England.’
‘Huh! To my mother, more like,’ Edward muttered, slumping further into the cocoon of his cloak.
Giving a small acknowledging bow, Earl Harold stood. Godwine granted him precedence by resuming his seat. Harold had grown in confidence since the Easter festivities, the responsibility of overseeing such a great earldom igniting his abilities. He took his duties seriously – although the lure of a comely woman or
the thrill of the hunt could still divert his attention a little too easily. For over an hour the deciding who ought to be bishop had rumbled on and although the inclement weather outside was hardly enticing, Harold had much to do. If he did not leave for Essex soon, he would need delay the journey until the morrow. Another night in this dreary royal stronghold? His groan of dismay at the thought was almost audible. ‘Sire,’ he coaxed with a warm smile, ‘the coastal lands of East Anglia are under severe threat from Magnus of Norway. It is highly probable that the present irregular sea raids may escalate next spring into full-scale invasion. Magnus regards his claim to your throne as just and valid. I need strong men of influence at my back if I am to maintain authority and calm among the populace of that part of your kingdom.’ Harold put as much emphasis on his point as he could. Come the passing of winter, England could well be at war with Norway, and East Anglia or the coast of Kent would be Magnus’s battleground. Stigand was a shrewd and politically capable man. Despite his personal dislike of him, Harold knew he would be an effective bishop. A man who could keep a firm hand on the greed of certain prelates within the church hierarchy, would be equally capable of instilling trust into the land-folk and the men who would be called upon to make up the army of the fyrd. What more could he add to the argument already put forward? ‘I support the recommendation of Stigand; he would be welcome in my earldom.’ Harold, glancing ruefully at his father, sat.
Wind battered against the window shutters – which, closed, did little to keep out the draught, but effectively barred light – rapping as if demanding entrance. Dusk would be falling within three hours. Earl Siward of Northumbria glanced at his ally, Leofric of Mercia, who shrugged. Neither wanted to stay longer than necessary at this council. In Siward’s opinion, Stigand was naught but a backside licker, a secretive and ambitious cleric who served Emma. There was a rumour that the Queen wanted to place Magnus of Norway on the throne of England and Stigand was of Viking descent. Undoubtedly, Stigand supported Emma’s scheming and whoever supported the Queen most assuredly also supported the Godwines. More arse washers! Between them, the Godwines held over-much power. And the lady presumed, too often, on the authority that she had once held in the past. Stigand, in Siward’s mistrusting mind, was not the right man for a bishopric but perhaps it was wise to give the man enough rope to form himself a noose, one that could eventually loop around Emma’s interfering neck also. Siward did not stand, he merely lifted his right hand, spread his fingers in a gesture of submission. ‘Godwine and Harold talk sense. Northumbria does not object.’
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