New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  Women carried bulging packages; men humped rolls of cloth, sacks or crates and barrels. Handcarts blocked the road, while ragged children darted in and out of it all. Barking dogs, squealing mules, lowing oxen. Above the noise rose the smell of unwashed people all crowded together. Muck and filth clogged the road. Debris and animal dung mixed with raw sewage. Yet no one seemed to notice either the raucous din or the appalling stench. It was all a part of what made London what it was – the busiest, almost the most important port in all the world.

  Edyth did not know where to look first, what to see, what to hear. Her heart raced and thumped from the thrill of it all, her throat croaking a sudden cry of fear when her horse was thrust aside from Harold and the escort. The crowd closed into the sudden free space; a man, bent beneath heavy sheepskins, pushed in front of her. But instantly Harold reappeared at her side, his mouth grinning reassurance, his hand coming out to take the mare’s reins, to lead her quietly forward.

  They were through the press of the crowds and coming out on to Thames Street. More traders had set their stalls along the open embankment, fish sellers, pie makers – every culinary concoction imaginable. The river itself was no less crowded. Small boats and fishing boats. Merchant vessels with their high, swooping prows, flat-keeled boats with their single sails furled, moored against the oak timbers of the wharves or beached upon the clay reinforcement of the low-tide mud banks. Great sea-going beasts out of the water, some at anchor, others with oars out to manoeuvre against the water’s flow before the flood tide should come in upon them.

  Ahead towered the wooden structure of London Bridge sweeping across the river. Never had Edyth imagined that a mere bridge could be so wide or so long, nor that it could take the accumulated weight of so many. Surely, any minute it would creak and groan, and fall into the white-foamed water that was rushing beneath?

  The mare faltered as her fore hoof touched the timber, but again Harold was there, coaxing her forward. ‘I can see I will have to buy you a mount more used to these crowds,’ he said. ‘As soon as I can, I will take you to the horse sales down on the Smoothfield market.’

  Curses and laughter emanated from the press ahead, a flurry, and a piglet, ears flat, tail bolt upright, ran squealing from between people’s legs, heading for the street beyond the bridge. Several men made to clutch it, one woman tried to toss her shawl over it, but it dodged aside, hurtling between the hooves of Harold’s horse. The animal merely snorted and sidestepped.

  ‘There is every kind of mount imaginable at Smoothfield,’ Harold continued, as if nothing had happened. ‘Mares, geldings, ambling palfreys and high-stepping colts, destriers with quivering ears and proud hearts. Mind, there is many a rogue at the horse market – man and beast – but if you know what you are seeking you can find it, if you’re prepared to haggle the price.’

  A boy, a barefoot, ragged-dressed lad of no more than seven years, darted in the piglet’s trail, ripples of teasing and more than a few crude curses following in his wake. He dodged around the horses, leapt the last three strides from the timber bridge and scampered on up the lane to where astonished voices marked the animal’s route.

  Edyth had watched with growing horror as the pig narrowly missed her own mare’s trampling hooves – what if she shied? She gasped as the boy almost collided with her mare’s broad rump, hardly heard Harold’s calm narrative of the horse market.

  Staunchly, she concentrated on looking ahead, telling herself not to look down, not to think of that mass of water below. Her relief on reaching the other side was immense, quickly overshadowed by the realisation that they had arrived, were at Godwine’s London estate, his Hall in Southwark.

  It looked much the same as her father’s steading, save that it was larger, with double the number of outbuildings – and that it was surrounded by a timber-built palisade fence that stood twice the height of a man. Guards stamped to attention as Harold rode through the open gateway; servants ran to take the horses and unload the pack ponies. Countess Gytha was suddenly there, coming quickly down the wooden steps from the Hall, her arms outstretched to welcome her son. Behind her came Godwine, rough-faced but wearing a beaming expression of pleasure, and beside him a fourteen-year-old boy, Gyrth, his fourth son, who strongly resembled his mother, with her high cheekbones and slender-shaped mouth and chin.

  Others were clustering around, coming, it seemed, from every door and from around every corner. Family and kindred, servant and housecarl . . . so many people clustered into the confined space of the courtyard. So much noise and bustle!

  Edyth sat her mare, uncertain whether to jump down or wait, embarrassed by the sudden realisation that she was in high company and had no idea of the correct thing to do. A tall blond-haired young man who had been vigorously pumping Harold’s arm detached himself from the Earl and strode over to her. He thrust both his broad, strong hands around Edyth’s waist and lifted her from the saddle as if she were as light as a single goose feather, proclaiming, ‘And who are you? Not attached to Harold, I trust? He has all the fortune when it comes to the finest-looking ladies!’

  Embarrassed, Edyth blushed and looked at the toes of her boots. Harold rescued her, taking her hand and drawing her protectively close to his side.

  ‘I am sorry, cousin, but my Lady here is spoken for.’ The pride in his voice was unmistakable. ‘She is Edyth Swannhæls, and she is my hand-fast wife. This, my dear-heart, is my mother’s nephew from Denmark. Beorn Estrithson. He has an intelligent brain and a brave heart, but uses neither because he has discovered that his privy member has other uses than the necessity to piddle!’

  Playfully Beorn protested. He made to punch Harold’s shoulder; the older man, laughing, caught the fist and sent a mock blow in return. Two younger boys had darted into the assembly, their faces grimed, boots muddy, one carrying a fishing pole, the other three fresh-caught fish. From their colouring and appearance, and the way they launched themselves simultaneously on to Harold’s back, feet kicking and hands clasping at his hair, they had to be his two youngest brothers, Leofwine and Wulfnoth, one eight, the other nine years old.

  Edyth smiled shyly, aware that she was not one of the family. With Harold distracted by the boys, Countess Gytha stepped forward to embrace her, bidding a welcome with a genuine affection. Godwine, after half-heartedly admonishing his youngest two, patted Harold’s shoulder and then turned to sweep his bearmuscled arms around her. ‘Delighted!’ he boomed, holding Edyth at arm’s length and looking at her approvingly. ‘I am delighted for you both. Every good fortune to you!’

  When first she had met him, Edyth had been in awe of this bullchested man, but had seen that beneath the ruthlessness of his public image he cherished his family. Edyth was a little frightened of his status, but liked him very much as a man. As her father-inlaw, she had no hesitation in returning his embrace.

  Two people remained within the shadows of the doorway, ambivalently watching the joyous reunion. ‘All this fuss!’ Tostig snorted, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Our brother Harold is returned and the entire household behaves as if it is the Second Coming!’

  ‘But he has been ill. Mother would not have ridden all that way up into Essex had he not been close to death.’ Edith, shocked at her brother’s near blasphemy, was torn between the two loyalties for brother against brother.

  ‘He looks to be in good enough health now,’ Tostig answered, acid contempt in his voice.

  ‘You are just jealous because he is receiving all the attention.’ Edith pushed her arm through her favourite brother’s, gave it a squeeze. ‘You’ll be happy once you have an earldom settled upon you. Once I am wed, I shall see to it that Edward rewards you with some position of great authority. Perhaps something even higher than Harold? Would that please you?’

  Tostig frowned. Even Emma, after her years of authority, had not managed half of what Edith was envisioning she would achieve once she was queen. And then he noticed Edyth.

  ‘Well, well! He has brought the Nazeing whore c
alled Edyth of the Swan’s Neck with him! Swegn said our brother had eyes bulging in his breeches for her.’

  Edith looked, her expression hardening. She walked forward, her head high, her gown of expensive silk rustling as she moved. Tostig was not being fair. Harold ought to be welcomed with open hearts back into his proper place. A backwater steading somewhere along the Lea valley was all very well for a quiet convalescence, and temporary liaisons, but he was, after all, Earl of East Anglia and would soon be brother-in-law to the King of England. Strumpets might be acceptable to pass the time in the country, but Edward would most certainly not admit a common-born whore into his court.

  Tostig watched, amused, as his sister swept down the steps to embrace Harold ostentatiously. He? Jealous of Harold? If Edith’s performance down in that courtyard was not prompted by jealousy then he was the king of England! He snorted through his nostrils and stalked off towards the stables.

  ‘Harold!’ Arms outstretched, Edith joyfully launched herself at her brother. ‘I was so worried, so afraid that you would die – that you would not be well enough to attend my wedding! Have you heard of my marriage? I am sure you were told. I am to be Queen – think of that! You and Swegn boasting at becoming earls – and now I am to outshine you all, am I not? Papa included!’ She tossed a coy look at her father, who guffawed, amused at her absurdity.

  Linking her arms through Harold’s, Edith drew him with her as she began to walk, chattering about her wedding plans, back towards the Hall. In mid-flow she suddenly asked, ‘Who is the wench, brother?’ Without waiting for a reply, her high, clear voice sailed on: ‘I fully understand that you enjoy intimate company in your bed, but you are not thinking of presenting her at court, I trust? Edward has no liking for whores. Indeed, he respects only the Christian vows of marriage, has no patience with these archaic heathen customs.’

  As brother and sister entered the shadows of the Hall, any response that Harold might have made was muffled by the bustle of men and women returning to their duties, but Gytha had heard every word that her tactless daughter had spoken. From the tinge of pink on her cheeks, so had Edyth. Amiably the Countess offered to escort her to Harold’s private quarters. ‘He has a chamber to the rear of the Hall,’ she explained. ‘It is modest but comfortable.’ Gytha indicated a narrow path that threaded beside the imposing timbered walls of the Mead Hall. ‘You can reach it from a passageway from within, but this is more secluded should you wish for privacy.’

  She halted before a rectangular dwelling set against the rear of the main building. Built of wattle and plaster, with sloping thatched roof and a single window with shutters open to the daylight, it seemed a house place that might be lived in by any man of moderate means. Gytha clicked the door-latch open, beckoned for Edyth to come inside. Within, the touches of comfort were undoubtedly Gytha’s thoughtfulness – no unwed man would think to place such a sunny counterpane of yellow interwoven checks upon the bed, nor bother with the sumptuous bear- and wolf-skins spread across the oak-wood floor. Bright tapestries adorned the whitewashed walls; two chests and a table with an earthenware jar filled with spring flowers and a bowl of dried fruits upon it stood against one wall.

  Edyth’s eyes were drawn to the bed, curtained by swathes of saffron material. Large enough to accommodate a man and his bedmate, it dominated the small room. She blushed as two servants entered carrying her clothes chest and personal belongings.

  Countess Gytha caught her embarrassment, put her finger below Edyth’s chin and tipped her young, innocent face upwards. ‘I ought not admit to having a favourite son, for I should value all my boys the same, yet Harold is special to me, perhaps because he is the most like his father. If you are able to make my son happy then I am most pleased.’

  She paused, wondering, not for the first time, what had happened to some of her children. Here was Harold, genial, good-natured and pleasant-mannered, a handsome man any woman would be proud to call son or husband. Her last-born sons also, Gyrth, almost into his manhood, Leofwine and Wulfnoth, boys full of mischief but with kind hearts. But Swegn, Tostig and Edith? Where had she made the mistake with those three? Heaven help us, she thought, when Edith becomes the mother of a future king.

  She turned back to Edyth, her smile radiant and genuine, said honestly, ‘I am mistress of this house, not my daughter, and I am delighted to welcome you into my family.’

  12

  Thorney Island The King received Harold at court more effusively than even his family had. The cry of joy, the kiss to both cheeks, the embrace . . . all of it Harold shrewdly assessed to be false, an act. Godwine was not in favour with the King, and neither was Earl Siward of Northumbria or Leofric of Mercia. By openly displaying public favouritism or barbed sarcasm and displeasure as it suited his unpredictable whim, Edward could play one power holder off against the other.

  Harold had brought his anointed king a present – bribery, some would call it – but it was always wise to keep Edward content. When he had become king, Earl Godwine had sought to curry his favour by presenting a sixty-oared, single-masted warship, complete with gilded prow, the best tackle and carrying eighty fully armed soldiers. Harold could not match that extravagance, but he had a gift of a similar nature to offer.

  ‘Sire, your welcome is more than kind. I have greatly missed the pleasures of court and I praise God that I am now able to attend you.’ His words were in French, since Edward had recently, for reasons of his own, ordered that language to be spoken at court. It was the tongue of culture and achievement, Edward proclaimed. He was as capable of speaking and reading English as he was of using Latin, Greek or Danish, but whether he was missing his past in Normandy, or merely deliberately provoking his short-tempered earls, no one had yet decided. Leofric and Siward could understand few of the foreign words and could certainly not pronounce them. Another prod to deepen the rivalries of these powerful men. The Godwines, father, brothers and daughter, were fluent in many languages.

  Modestly accepting a further embrace from Edward, Harold continued his rehearsed greeting. ‘I have a gift for you, my Lord. It has not yet arrived but before Easter Monday comes there will be a modest craft awaiting you at Queenshythe Wharf. Bonny, sleekbuilt and swift of sail, she is being ferried down the Lea at this moment and will, I trust, be suitable for the boys’ boat race on that day. I would wager a gold purse that she can win that race, should you have a suggestion for someone to captain her.’

  The young man standing a single pace behind Edward widened his speedwell-blue eyes, almost hopping from foot to foot with sudden excitement. Turned fifteen, tall and fair of face, Ralf of Mantes was the son of Edward’s sister. He looked from Harold to his uncle, like an overweight dog begging for a tit-bit. ‘Uncle,’ he asked tentatively, ‘I would be honoured to captain her for you.’

  Edward stroked his blond beard. ‘I have not yet seen this gift, my lad, yet already you ask to take it from me?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘What if she is not all Harold says? The Godwine family are notorious for their exaggeration.’

  Neither Harold nor his father uttered a word. No reaction to the deliberate insult suggesting they were inveterate liars flickered on their faces. Harold merely firmed his lips slightly tighter; Godwine stored it away in his mind with the host of other collected ridicules and aspersions. One day, he just might be pushed into opening the lid to that store-box . . .

  Edward continued talking to Ralf aware the jibe had wounded Godwine, satisfied that the man could not retaliate. A pity the mud should also spatter Harold on this occasion, but every opportunity to keep these precocious earls in check had to be made use of. ‘The race can be a dangerous affair. Ought I allow my beloved nephew to take such risks?’

  Ralf chewed his lip. Edward looked at Harold, who stood, dressed in his finest apparel, his face schooled to detached stillness. Edward enjoyed his games of cat and mouse, but no one at court could be complacent about when or how the cat would pounce.

  ‘You cannot captain her, uncle,’ Ralf persisted.
‘I know you prefer to cheer the competitors rather than sail yourself – you told me so, not many days past!’ Wisely, he did not add that besides, Edward was too old to enter the Easter river tourney, which was for the boys of London, not the old men.

  ‘Youngsters today, eh, Harold? It is all want, want, want, and take, take, take.’ Edward slapped his earl of East Anglia on the shoulder, becoming jovial again, the batting claws temporarily sheathed. ‘In my day we accepted what we were given and lived with it without mithering.’ Politely everyone nodded agreement. ‘You have commissioned this fine craft for me, Harold. Could my nephew captain her, win me the race?’

  Harold allowed his expression to relax into a genuine smile. He liked Ralf, despite the Norman blood in his veins. ‘I would say this young man would represent England with honour, sir.’

  Delighted, Ralf leapt into the air, clapping his hands together. The King, Harold and Earl Godwine laughed appreciatively, yet other men scowled at this favouring of another foreigner. At least Edward, although come to manhood in Normandy, had been born in England with both father and mother committed to the English cause. Ralf’s mother had been sent abroad as the child bride to a Norman nobleman; Ralf, born and raised across the sea, had come to England three months before Edward’s coronation. He was a Norman receiving too many privileges from England and some feared that, as a kinsman of a king, he might have an eye on the throne itself.

  The royal Hall was smoke-addled and stuffy despite air being drawn up through the smoke hole and the draughts riddling through and under walls and doors. Men of the Witan drifted into groups, debating the afternoon’s prospective meeting of Council. Bishops and clerics huddled together; earls, shire reeves, aldermen and merchantmen sought the opinions of their own kind. Tomorrow would see the Easter Moot of the London Guilds, held in the city of London within the imposing Alderman’s Hall. Erected in Aldermansbury Street, the place had, in the time of King Alfred, been a simple fortified Hall of timber and Roman stone, owned by a wealthy merchantman who had achieved the high and respected status of Alderman. During the settled years after Alfred, with trade flourishing and wealth growing, the merchants and tradesmen of London had begun to form themselves into guilds the better to serve their particular trade, setting agreed standards of workmanship, rates of price and pay, and authorising the number of apprentices. What better place than that same Alderman’s Hall for the London goldsmiths guild to meet? The bakers, the tanners, potters and weavers to debate the selling of wares, limit the encroachment of foreign imports or complain against the high rate of taxation? Edward intensely disliked going to the Guilds’ meeting house. In fact, setting foot inside the walls of London revolted him. It stank no more than other large cities – Winchester or York – nor was it any noisier or more crowded. No, London held too many sour memories for Edward. It was from London that his mother had yielded to that usurper’s claim. And London’s populace had not raised a single finger to protect him, his brother or their claim to the throne.