New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  The church had been damp and cold inside, for the sun had not warmed through the split trunks and wattle that formed the walls. They had knelt together before the altar, she and Harold, had prayed a while, then Harold had touched the stone cross reverently and sent one of his men to find Father Osbert.

  ‘I am to leave for London in two days,’ Harold, emerging from the church, announced to Edyth as the elderly priest bustled forward to greet them. ‘But there are a few things I must attend to before I depart.’

  Edyth stood a pace or two behind Harold, shrouded in the deep shadows of the porch. She bit her lip to stem the tears that welled in her eyes. So soon? Was he to leave her so soon?

  ‘I have found the quiet of your church a healing balm for my aching spirit these past weeks, Father,’ Harold said to the priest. ‘Yet I notice it is in grave need of repair. I intend to reward you and the good villagers of Waltham for your care and kind hearts and, in so doing, I will also give thanks to God for my recovery, which, while not yet complete, is almost so.’

  Osbert was unashamedly beaming. It had been an honour to tend a man such as Harold, but a reward, a gift to the church, had not been expected. What would he offer? Gold plate, silver candlesticks? The roof desperately needed mending and the timber of the north wall was mildewed and rotten. Heavy rain caused such problems . . . his mouth, however, dropped wide in astonishment as Harold continued.

  ‘I intend to provide funding for a new and larger church to be built here, an abbey, in fact, with adequate grounds and lands for a monastery, complete with provision for the secular education of those wishing for a life devoted to God.’ Harold held out his hand to Osbert who had fallen to his knees, urging him back to his feet. ‘I will recommend to the King that you be named first abbot of Waltham Abbey, my good friend.’

  Osbert could not help himself: tears of joy slithered from his eyes. He had prayed for a miracle to repair his humble little church – and now it was to be rebuilt, enlarged . . . What a glory to God Waltham would become!

  The inhabitants of the few dwellings that clustered around the church had crowded round; now their cheering turned to excited chatter as Harold mounted his gelding. A monastery would bring trade, travellers and pilgrims – before them, workmen, masons, builders, smiths, carpenters and craftsmen. Waltham was a poor village; the erection of a great abbey would transfer it into a town of wealth and worth. Hands reached out to touch Harold, cries of ‘Bless you!’ echoed after him as he nudged his horse forward.

  ‘That was well done, my Lord,’ Thorfinn, one of his housecarls, remarked. ‘An abbey here will be most fitting.’

  ‘What think you, Edyth?’ Harold asked, twisting in his saddle to see the girl following on her roan pony. ‘There will be disruption to this peaceful spot, of course. Stone to be brought from abroad – Caen, in Normandy, I understand provides the best – there will be many people here for many years. An abbey, of the size I envisage, cannot be built in a matter of months.’

  ‘It will bring great joy to the villagers, my Lord,’ Edyth answered, attempting to put enthusiasm behind her words.

  Harold reined in his gelding to keep pace with her. ‘Will it bring joy to you, my little one?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Oh.’ Edyth attempted a smile. ‘A new house of God can, surely, bring nothing but joy.’

  Chewing his lip, Harold nodded, then tactfully changed the subject. ‘It is such a fine day – I have no desire to ride homewards yet. Let us follow down river a while.’

  They rode companionably in silence along the lane, threading their way through an encroachment of new spring growth until Harold reined in beside a track that led off through the trees to their left. ‘To where does this lead?’ he asked.

  Controlling the unhappy tightness in her throat, Edyth answered with the brightest voice that she could raise, hoped that he would not hear its falseness: ‘This is Mott Street; it climbs up to a crest of high land that overlooks the valley.’

  Cocking his head to one side, Harold inspected the grassed track, just wide enough for a single horse to pass. There were several freshmade deer slots in the mud. ‘I have noticed that the deer are plentiful in this forest of Waltham, perhaps I ought to consider building myself a suitable hunting lodge near my new abbey – but far enough to be distant from the noise and disruption of building, eh?’ He deliberately put a question into his voice to make her look up and answer. She looked so sad, so lost.

  ‘Aside from a few cottages scattered along the ridge, there is nothing up this lane.’ Edyth managed a pale smile. ‘It is a good place to ride if you seek the solitude of peace and privacy.’ She looked down at her hands curled around the reins. Looked up again to meet his eyes, her smile more confident. ‘I would be glad to share it with you.’

  It was, as she had said, a steep climb up through the crowding trees. The horses, hot in the remains of their winter coats, were puffing and sweating as they finally ducked through a canopy of branches and splashed through one of the numerous streams that tumbled down the hill. A panoramic view of the valley, lit by golden sunlight, was spread below, the grey trails of smoke from the houses at Waltham visible against the cloudless sky. Squatting at the centre of the village, the little church with its thatch roof and wattle walls was huddled amid its cluster of outbuildings. Many fields were already ploughed, on others grazed cattle, sheep and geese. The song of swans’ wings whished overhead, causing Harold, Edyth and the two housecarls to look up. Three of the great white birds skimmed the treetops, heading for the river which meandered sedately through the lush green of the winter-flooded water meadows.

  ‘Boats will come up there,’ Harold said, pointing to the wide ribbon of water. ‘Boats from London and the Thames river, laden with their cargo to build my abbey.’ He dismounted, tossed the reins to Thorfinn and went to lift Edyth from Squirrel. He found it awkward using only the one arm, but she put her hands on his shoulders, and she was so light that he needed only to put one arm around her waist to steady her as she kicked her feet free of the stirrups and jumped down from the saddle.

  ‘Have you ever followed the river down to London?’ he asked, guessing that she had not. ‘It is but a handful of miles, you know.’

  She shook her head. London? Would she ever see a wondrous place like London?

  He kept his hand on her waist as he walked her away from the men towards the trees that ran behind them along the hump of the ridge. A deer trail rambled through the woods and although it was muddy, Harold suggested they follow it a while. ‘If we tread quietly we may see a doe, or perhaps an early-born fawn.’

  Edyth halted where the narrow track broadened among a swathe of silver-trunked birch. The trees, despite their height that reached to almost forty feet, were slender and dainty. She peeled away a layer of papery bark, marvelling at its softness, yet extreme strength.

  ‘The silver-birch tree is often called the Lady of the Woods,’ Harold said, leaning his back against one of the nearest trees. ‘Did you know that?’

  Edyth shook her head.

  ‘It is the tree of the Norse goddess, Frigga. A woman’s tree, the symbol of love and of new beginnings.’

  She had not known that either.

  Harold reached up and broke off a length of supple twig, its small, spade-shaped leaves tightly curled. He pushed himself away from the trunk and gave her his simple offering. ‘It ought to be a garland, but . . .’ He indicated his left arm.

  Edyth took the twig and looped it around the fair skin of her neck, twisting its ends together to form a crude necklace. ‘There,’ she said, tucking her chin down to peer at her new finery, ‘it sits well.’

  Saying nothing, Harold took hold of her fingers, placed them within the cupped stiffness of his left hand, manipulated each stubbornly resistant digit to curl around hers. Her eyes lifted, questioning, to look into his face, then she dropped her gaze quickly, uncertain at what she had felt. She saw his fingers actually tighten, felt the pressure of his hand squeezing hers.

&
nbsp; ‘You can use your hand!’ she exclaimed with delight.

  Harold grinned. ‘Aye, for a few days now I have felt tingling there, like the stab of pins and needles. I hope it will not be long before I have full use restored. I . . .’ He paused, the grin fading to a more serious expression. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know.’

  Understanding the compliment, Edyth squeezed his hand back, whispering, ‘Thank you.’ She raised her other hand and touched the tip of her fingers to his cheek. ‘Your smile reached this side of your mouth, that is also healing.’

  Turning his head, Harold slid his lips beneath her touch, lightly kissed her fingers. Startled, she caught her breath and moved back half a pace, self-consciously twining her hands together behind her back.

  ‘You have healed me’, he said without trying to move after her, ‘with your captivating laughter and your sweet voice. And with the tears that you shed in secret during the hours of darkness. Edyth, I am to leave here, but I cannot bring myself to leave without you. If you can feel for me even a part of that which I feel for you, would you consider becoming my hand-fast woman?’

  She made to answer, but he moved swiftly, touching his good hand to her lips, staying any hasty word.

  ‘I am an earl, son to a man who, below the King, is the most powerful in all England. One day I will need to make a Christianblessed marriage in order to forge an alliance for my family. Through such a marriage I may be able to put an end to the rivalry that has existed between Wessex and the Northumbrian or Mercian lands all these many years. That time is not yet, and until then I would follow the custom of our Danish ancestors by taking a first wife, a love-wife.’

  Edyth wanted to speak, yet the words would not pass the choking in her throat. So dearly had she not wanted this man to leave her, but she had never dreamt to hear what he was now saying. How could she answer him? Her joy was too great, too completely overwhelming.

  A second time Harold asked, ‘Would you, my dearest, beloved Edyth, here among the silver trees, with none save God as witness, consent to take me as your hand-fast husband?’

  Lifting her eyes, the diamond glitter of welling tears resting on her lashes, Edyth smiled up at him. ‘Yes,’ she answered, her voice so faint that he barely heard. Then she tipped her head higher, straightened her shoulders and said again, louder and with conviction, ‘Yes please, I would so consent.’

  Harold tossed his head back, laughed his delight and, threading his good arm round her waist, whirled her in a few dancing circles, guiding her between the upright silver trunks, her feet occasionally lifting from the damp soil. Breathless, he halted, and drew her to him, her body pressing against the firm strength of his chest. Then bent his head and kissed her, as a man who has found his love should kiss a woman.

  Her arms went about his neck and as she returned the kiss he laid her gently down, taking her to him as his woman, giving in return his devotion. Giving it with care and tenderness, their union witnessed by God and the silver birch, the Lady of the Woods.

  11

  London London, Edyth realised, was larger, busier and noisier than ever she could have imagined. It also stank.

  She had ridden the dozen or so miles from Nazeing in a state of bubbling euphoria. Her father had allowed her to borrow one of the farm’s mares; Harold himself had presented her with a new saddle of exceptional quality, sent for some weeks previously as a thank-you gift and purchased, he told her, from the most skilled harness-maker in all London. ‘Soon, you will see where such things are made for yourself. And more besides.’

  They had left an hour after sunrise, thankful that the drizzling rain of the previous day had dried into a cloud-covered but pleasantly warm morning. Edyth wore a spring-green cloak, newmade riding apparel and a smile that Harold said was wider than the River Thames itself. She was also nervous, for she had never travelled so far from home, but Harold stayed always at her side, making conversation to put her at ease, although his enthusiasm for the journey was not as buoyant as he pretended.

  The weeks at Nazeing had, once his illness began to abate, been a time of pleasure – not merely because of Edyth. Days of blissful abstention from responsibility; an opportunity to sit beside the river, quietly to observe the hypnotic current as it rippled and eddied. A rare chance to enjoy the spring flowers blooming, watch the wind scurry through the trees or the rain moving across the sky in banks of shape-changing cloud. He had rediscovered things from childhood that he had forgotten – fishing, riding for the pleasure of it, the marvel of new life on a farm: lambs, calves, chicks and piglets. The pace of a freeborn farmer directed by the cycle of nature had suddenly appealed, although Harold was aware that without adequate gold, such a living could be harsh. There was always work to be done – hard work – on the land, from dawn till dusk, through all weathers, all seasons. A peasant relied on a small patch of land, one pig, one goat, to provide his meagre existence; had no servant, no well-stocked barn or comfortable Hall. No fur-lined boots or cloak to keep out the cold of mid-winter. Harold knew all that, knew that the life he had been born to, of politics, leadership, warfare and government, to outwit an opponent, was the only one that he could follow. This pessimism that he was trying to hide from Edyth arose from a reluctance to return to the banal bickering of court and the tedium of pointless bureaucracy.

  The office of earl was a demanding role, and there would be much for him to catch up with: legal matters to make judgment on, charters to witness and sign . . . he had reliable clerical secretaries who had kept him informed of the more important matters, but the first few days back in London would inevitably revolve around endless meetings, discussions and decision-making. Edward would expect his full attention too; would have much to discuss. Harold only hoped that most of it would be important, not a surfeit of information about church building or hunting. Though Harold was always willing to listen to a recounting of a good chase, Edward had a tedious habit of repeating particular anecdotes. And then there were his numerous Norman friends to be tolerated.

  Naturally, Edward had brought his favoured companions with him when he returned to England and, naturally, some of them he had wanted to reward, but there were limits to the degree of honours presented to outsiders. Men like Robert Champart for example.

  No doubt the matter of Queen Emma’s removal would be high on the agenda also – his father’s letters had seen Harold informed of that particular sour turn of events. He agreed with Godwine that to humiliate the Queen had been a mistake – all rumour of her involvement with Magnus had proven unfounded – but equally Harold had conceded his father’s difficulty. If Swegn, damn him, had not been so foolishly implicated, then perhaps Godwine could have prevented the whole unfortunate business. Ah, but repercussions were bound to be swirling around court still . . . At least he had Edyth with him. She would be waiting for him at the end of the long days, with her happy smile and soft young body.

  The road they followed was level and well gravelled, with only the occasional pothole. Behind them it ran northwards up into the ancient Saxon lands of the North and South Folk and the lonely windswept swathes of the East Anglian fenlands. Ahead, the distant smoke haze that hung in a ragged fug over the city of London was visible for most of their journey. Much of the land to the north-east of London, now that they had ridden away from the forested ridges above the Lea and Roding valleys, was flat marshland divided by rivers and streams, the reed beds and isolated clumps of alder or crack willow occupied by waders and water fowl. They had passed through hamlets such as Walhamstowe, Leaton and Stokæ, where women and children had come from their houses to wave and cheer; those working in the fields had halted their plough teams to watch the cavalcade pass by.

  The first thing that struck Edyth as they approached London itself was the height of its walls. The Roman giants, Harold told her, had built them to defend England’s most important town from harm. ‘No one can attack London,’ he informed her with pride. ‘Not without the prospect of a long siege and much discomfort. Lon
don can only fall from within. When – if – the people decide to surrender.’ And that, Edyth thought to herself, they would surely never do!

  They followed the banks of the sluggish Walbrook river as it trundled towards the Thames – and then they were at the Bishop’s Gate, riding beneath its echoing stone archway. Their escort, Harold’s housecarls and servants, bunched closer, their horses’ shod hooves clattering on the road that was suddenly no longer rough gravel but cobbled. The noise of the city was not immediately apparent, for they rode down through the Corn Hill, where not so many years past the wheat had been more dominant than the newsettled inhabitants. The hovels were beginning to encroach further out on to the few acres of open land, especially in the vicinity of All Hallows with its high-gabled, resplendently thatched-reed roof. The Londoners affectionately called it Grass Church, visitors and foreigners, mistaking the common-used accent, knowing it as Grace Church. The building squatted, serene, in the last oasis of peace before the bustle of the market streets of East Cheap.

  They turned their horses into the busy scramble – Edyth had never heard so much noise, not even at the autumn slaughter. She thought the old bull last year had bellowed loud, but this, this was incredible! Traders yodelled from behind their heaped stalls, men and women bawling out the attractions of their wares, haggling sharply and furiously with buyers, irritable with the slower minded, quick to strike a bargain whenever they could. A barrage of voices, high-pitched, gruff, cursing or laughing. Accents Edyth had not heard before, languages she could not identify. The riders passed stacks of wooden, copper and clay bowls; pewter ware; woven baskets of all shapes, sizes and forms. Stalls bright with colourful bolts of cloth, fruit stalls, meat stalls, wine and ale sellers. Leather and hides. Iron, wool . . . everything imaginable. She saw a blackhaired person with skin as dark as a bay pony’s polished coat, another tall and fair with a bright-bladed axe slotted through his belt. This was the part of London where people headed, where trade flourished, where the gold and silver was made and paid. They came to London from all over the world, the merchants and the traders. From Denmark and Norway, Flanders and France and Normandy. From further away than that: Rome and Greece and the Holy Land. From Africa and Spain!