New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  The pride in Harold’s voice had been unmistakable when he had first introduced the girl to her, the shyness of the child as apparent. That there was a naïve infatuation shared between the two lovers was undeniable, but between the sister and this lass? Ah, storm clouds were brewing there!

  ‘I hear the King would rather you took, with Christian blessing, a wife of higher status,’ Emma said to Harold, seated at her left hand. ‘Does the prospect of a grand alliance, and perhaps further power, not lure you? I understand your sister and my son both disapprove of your declaration of love for a woman bred of common land-folk. Would it not have been wiser to take her as your bedmate until a daughter more suitable was offered you?’ It was an impertinent remark. She had intended it to be, to gauge Harold’s reaction.

  He was a mild-tempered man who feared God, loved hunting, disliked over-indulgence and unnecessary fighting; enjoyed good wine, a warm fire, a companion in his bed. A man who fulfilled his responsibilities as best he was able. He loved Edyth. ‘My sister,’ Harold answered, giving Emma a full, unwavering stare, ‘is vexed that her own marriage is delayed. Her ill will towards my woman stems from frustration.’ He paused, took a sip of his wine. ‘The King’, he continued blithely, ‘can go to the devil. I choose the woman who is to be my companion, not he.’ It was a bold – and potentially dangerous – reply. He had taken Edyth as hand-fast wife and hand-fast wife she was going to remain.

  Rinsing her fingers in the bowl of rose water that a servant offered, Emma dried them fastidiously on the linen towel. Rarely did she say anything just for the sake of it. Harold’s reaction had pleased her. Here was a man who would stand firm for his own beliefs, regardless of influence from others. Harold Godwinesson would make a good warlord. A pity the eldest son was not more like his brother. ‘Indeed, I intended no offence, Earl Harold. I wish you every happiness, at least for the length that your joining together may last.’

  As an apology it fell short of its target. Harold answered her politely, but with inflexible defiance: ‘This hand-fast marriage will last, my Lady Emma, for as long as I intend it to. And I intend it to last a very long time.’

  Seeking to soothe his ruffled feathers, Emma placed her hand on the stained tablecloth, a small, subtle extension to her apology. ‘I have had personal experience of concubine wives.’ She spread her fingers in a gesture of contrition, began absently toying with the rings that adorned them. Æthelred had avowed himself to a handfast wife prior to taking her in marriage, as had Cnut. Sons from both those bitches had caused Emma, as queen and mother of princes, no end of heartache. Had caused death and war for England.

  She liked Harold, one of the few men she did like, possibly because he was the son most similar to her father. Few men – earls, thegns, freemen, hah! even kings – would put England before their personal greed. Harold, she thought, would prove to be one of the rare ones, one of the few.

  For that, and for being honest, Emma would wish him and his shy, blushing maid no ill. She smiled at Harold, her face crinkling into lines of laughter that had rarely, through her entire life, been allowed a public airing. She lifted her goblet, clinked it against Harold’s. ‘Then let you and me damn Edward together and drink to our prospective hanging for the crime of treason!’

  Unlike Swegn, his elder brother, Harold seldom took offence and accepted apologies when given in faith. ‘Edyth is a sweet girl, madam, who makes me content.’ He grinned at Emma. ‘In bed and out of it!’

  Edyth had overheard nigh on every word; her blush of embarrassment tinted from pink to crimson red as Harold leant across and smacked a kiss on her lips. Beneath the table his hand was rummaging under her gown. She flicked his exploring fingers aside, her eyes flashing a reprimand. He laughed and gave her a second kiss, firmer and more possessive. For all her selfconsciousness at this public display of affection, her stomach gave a leap of anticipation. Not so long ago she had dreaded the first intimate touch from a man. How foolishly childish she had been – but then, she had not expected that man to be one such as Harold.

  Emma, although she barely knew the girl, instinctively liked her. Cynically, though, she knew she liked her because Edward did not, would always go out of her way to oppose her son. What he liked, she detested. What he condemned, she endorsed. It was a habit she had acquired during those interminable years of marriage to Æthelred. All he had been interested in was the use of a young maid’s untouched body. Was it any wonder that she hated Edward? Conceived through what had almost amounted to rape, birthed through two full days of an agonising labour that had come close to taking her life? Not until Cnut had shown her the meaning of love had she discovered the delight of the giving and taking of passion.

  Love? Hah! Where it existed there was always a counterbalance of hatred or sadness lurking somewhere. A pity that before too many years passed this young woman, whom Harold professed to love so much, would have her heart broken when he left her for a Christian marriage of alliance.

  And what of the other Edith? Godwine’s daughter? Would she find love once Edward eventually made up his mind to complete this marriage? At least it was doubtful she would suffer from the same fear and pain that Æthelred had inflicted. More likely, she would have to tolerate an excess of prayers before she could settle to bed.

  Would the marriage be suitable? If it were, more suitable for whom? Edward, Godwine – Emma herself?

  Edward did not want a wife but he needed a son. He desired also to curb both Emma’s interferences and Godwine’s political power. Marriage to Edith, unfortunate child, was his solution to accomplish all three, while expending as little energy as possible.

  Godwine wanted his daughter wed to a king. As father of a queen, grandfather of a first-born heir, the ætheling, he would become the most powerful man in all England, especially if something untoward happened to the reigning king. Which was possible. Edward was not a young man; the position of regent was one well worth pursuing. As Emma well knew, for she had ruled as regent when Cnut had been king.

  And, she mused, what do I want for myself?

  She had been lady, wife, mother, queen, regent, widow and dowager. Each part she had played in the drama of her life had been a lead role. There had been no choice for her in the matter of marriage to Æthelred; years of disappointment and fear had followed. When Cnut offered her the choice of exile or marriage, what kind of fool would she have been to have chosen exile? To disappear abroad, to become a nothing instead of remaining Queen? No matter that this second marriage might have turned out harsh, without love or respect – she had endured all that with Æthelred. But fortune had blessed her. The choice had been a good one. Was that perhaps why Edward resented her so, because she had risen from the ashes of defeat like a sun on a beautiful summer’s morning, while he had been left to moulder?

  Emma sighed, swallowed her wine. The wife of kings, the mother of kings. Those months ago when Edward had so humiliated her she had wanted nothing more than ferocious revenge, would have waged war to redeem what was rightfully hers. But now? Now she was tired of it all. Weary to the bone of the continual struggle for survival. She cared not a dried grape for remaining the prima donna, was content to withdraw into the dignity of widowed dowager – but she would not do so at Edward’s dictate. If she were to take a lesser part in this play, then she would write the lines of her exit. Power was not, now, so important; pride and dignity, the restoration of her independence and her wealth, had become paramount.

  Let someone else wear the title queen, someone else battle for survival in the cruel world of politics. Edith would at least have an advantage, for unlike the young girl that Emma had once been, she had a father and brothers who would ensure her rights were respected. She would have also a mother-in-law who had every intention of taking a keen interest in the birth, upbringing and progress of her grandchildren.

  15

  London A river mist had lain late along the embankment of the Thames, but by mid-morning the sun had managed to burn away the creeping white
ness, leaving the river to sparkle beneath a cheerful blue sky. At Queen’s Hythe the many little boats, moored alongside the larger sea-going keels, bobbed and buffeted each other as a slight breeze tickled the water. Spectators lined the bridge and riverside, those early comers who could not afford the luxury of the erected galleries setting down their stools and makeshift seats to secure a good view of the annual river tournament. Animated talk and the exchange of wagers on the entrants mingled with the cries of the street sellers and the excited chatter of the boys preparing their boats.

  Accompanied by his court, Edward rode the two miles from Thorney Island at a leisurely pace and in good humour. The entertainment would begin with the river jousting – already the pole had been placed in mid-flow, its bright-painted shield set several feet above the height of the flood tide. Each boat, crewed by the young and skilled oarsmen of London, had chosen their marksman, a boy who with braced lance would attempt to strike the shield dead centre. If he did so, then the craft would pass by the pole amid cheers of praise, but all too many boys would miss the target and take a dunking in the river – to the laughter and delight of the watching crowd.

  The King’s servants had brought the royal throne downriver from Thorney and had garlanded it with spring blossoms, set it beneath a canopy erected on a raised platform, directly opposite the tilt pole. Edward dismounted and stood at the river edge, fluttering his hand at the cheering spectators. He so enjoyed these crown-wearing days when his people had a chance to see him in all his splendid regalia. Loved, too, the enthusiastic applause. This was what it was to be a king! To be seen, acknowledged. Admired and loved.

  His good friend Robert Champart had advised him to dress sensibly in warm clothing today; even on a day of bright sunshine the river chill could penetrate a man’s bones. Sensibly, but finely. A blue woollen mantle over a linen tunic drawn in at the waist; the softest of woollen cross-gaitered leggings, his feet comfortable in doe-hide shoes, dyed red. Both cloak and tunic were edged with broad bands of intricate design, gold thread woven among the silks of vivid reds and blues, the garments held together by splendid brooches that glittered in the light. Resting upon his head, his crown, with its exquisite jewels. The King, robed and crowned, preeminent in rank and law and dignity, with all under his authority and all paying him tribute. At least for Edward there came the cheers of a genuine affection. His father, Æthelred, had far too often had rotten eggs hurled at him.

  Naturally, Edward had been informed of his mother’s arrival at Godwine’s Southwark house yester-eve. Godwine himself had sent the message, his man slipping quietly out of the gateway and running those few miles upriver. The Earl was no fool. Infinitely preferable to inform the King himself, rather than let others whisper it in his ear. The King, however, met with a surprise as Emma stepped forward from the knot of people around Godwine. She made no attempt to ascend the steps to the royal platform, but offered her son a deep curtsey that swept the puddled gravel of the pathway that ran beside the river. Edward was taken aback. He had expected a scene from her, a shrill demanding of her rights. Most certainly had not expected contrition.

  Emma knelt and, with her head bowed, publicly pleaded her son’s forgiveness, begged that he return her dignity. ‘The woman who bore such a beloved monarch should live as befits her position. I would not have the King ridiculed because his mother lives in poverty.’

  ‘Rest assured, madam,’ Edward countered witheringly, ‘I am not ridiculed now. On the contrary, I used to hear sniggers while your presence dominated my court. A man who cannot live beyond the clutch of his mother’s grasping hand is not, I have discovered, much admired.’

  Raising her head, Emma stared at him, her eyes showing nothing but regret. ‘I wish only to serve you as best I may. That has ever been my wish. So, too, did I serve your father. To survive after his death, I took the only road offered me and served Cnut, in the hope that one day you, my first-born son, would find a way to return to England and take your rightful place at her helm.’ Nonsense, of course, but Edward had always enjoyed flattery.

  When he, with the aid of his brother, had once attempted to take the throne from Harold Harefoot, Cnut’s son by his concubine, he had been forcibly denied entry into the country – and his brother Alfred had been murdered. He did not mention that sorry episode as an indictment of his mother’s failing him, however, for his own poor part in the affair deeply shamed him.

  Instead, Edward asked tersely, ‘What of your son Harthacnut? What of those rumours of your support for Magnus? You preferred the first to become king above me.’ He strode down the wooden steps to stand authoritatively over her. ‘When have you given me your support? Eh? Answer me that?’

  ‘You must allow for a mother’s frailties, my Lord King,’ she answered quickly, her gaze steadfast. ‘Her youngest child is often her most dear, for it is the youngest who keeps her young. Alas, the eldest only reminds her of her ripening years. I supported your halfbrother Harthacnut from vanity. From my fear of growing old. It was I, however, who urged him to recall you to England.’ She paused. Her knees were aching; the rough gravel was pressing into her skin through her gown, but she made no attempt to rise. As for Magnus of Norway . . . rumour would never outflank lack of evidence. She reached out and took Edward’s left hand. ‘And on my life, I assure you that I have never been in league with that Norwegian whoreson, although I do admit to retaining contact with one or two men of influence within his court. I have been, in my time, a powerful woman, Edward. Across the seas I have friends in royal courts and thegns’ homesteadings alike, and as they are loyal to me, so am I loyal to you.’ She placed her lips reverently to his signet ring. His face, which had at first puckered into a scowl, was now wrinkling into a frown of suspicion.

  ‘As proof of my devotion I have information to offer, regarding Magnus’s intentions towards this sacred realm of England.’ She spoke up now, playing to the spectators as well as Edward. She had not intended to reveal her spies’ news until later but she shrewdly judged that Edward was succumbing to her performance of humble repentance, opening the doors to his guilt and conscience . . .

  ‘I believe that Magnus himself intends to sail for these shores come the summer season,’ she announced. All those nearby drew breath. Too many remembered the fighting that came with Cnut’s invasion, the cost in terms of blood and gold. ‘I give you this news, so that your ships may be made ready in time to set a blockade against him. No man, be he Viking seafarer, Norwegian or Dane, can match the superiority of our English keels!’

  She declared the last with ringing voice, both her arms upraised. The listening crowd responded with a roar of approval. English ships were the best, English sailors without peer.

  Edward was not quite the fool his mother thought. He knew the woman’s humility to be a sham; guessed she had known of this news for many weeks – if not months – waiting for the right time to reveal it, a time to suit her own needs, not the needs of England. Huh, when did she ever care for others? There was only one person Emma cared for and that was Emma herself. But one of Edward’s weaknesses was his emotion. He was not usually a deliberately cruel or hard man; he had been known to shed tears at a beautiful song, a heart-moving prayer. What chance had such sensitive feelings against a woman so plaintively begging forgiveness? And what choice had he? London held Emma in regard and high affection. Give him a few more years, some popular charters and favours granted, and he would be as heart-held as she . . . oh, she was clever, his mother! London would never allow him to dismiss her from his presence – how well had she chosen the occasion to outmanoeuvre him! To lose the support of Londoners could be to lose the crown. Cnut had known that – which was why Emma had remained in the city when he had invaded England. It was why he had eventually chosen a diplomatic course over one of prolonged siege and warfare.

  For the benefit of the London public Edward bent down, embraced his mother, and invited her on to the platform to sit beside him. The Londoners cheered at his benevolence. Emma was d
elighted. Carefully laid tactics could so often avoid the spillage of a single drop of blood.

  With the King seated, the signal was given for the tourney to begin. The wind, as Robert Champart, seated to Edward’s right, had predicted, was indeed chill and he spread a woollen blanket over his king’s knees. How carefully was he masking his anger.

  Grateful for Robert’s care, not noticing the tick of rage that stuttered at the corner of the eye, Edward smiled at him. ‘We shall have a fine afternoon’s entertainment I think, Robert!’

  Champart said nothing in return. Emma he hated. Emma had won.

  The Thames river was calm, caught between the ebb and flood tides. The younger boys were to have their turn at the tilt before the tide turned to a seaward flow that would mulch the current into eddies and drifts, making it all the more difficult to handle a craft.

  Emma had ignored Champart’s presence. That he had instigated her son’s maliciousness was undoubted – Edward, alone, would never have dared confront her on her own ground. Champart had surely suggested that Edward take Godwine’s daughter in marriage, to divert Godwine from serving her, Emmæ Regina. A weasel of a man, Champart, intent only on his own gain.

  Emma leant towards her son and confided, ‘To my surprise, I have actually enjoyed the peace of living away from the tedium of royal politics these last months.’

  The boys of the first crew were driving their oars into the water, their scrawny arms pumping, their faces grim with exertion. A redhaired lad stood proud at the bow, feet and legs apart, body swaying to maintain balance, his lance tucked against his ribs. He hit the shield square in the centre with a thump that bounded across the water, instantly drowned by the roaring cheer of spectators.

  ‘I would wish to embrace fully the existence of the quieter life, but how can I?’ Emma gave a long sigh of exhaustion. ‘When the crown was placed upon my head and those drops of holy oil anointed my brow, I vowed to serve my God and England. Alas, I cannot turn my back on duty because I no longer care for the demands of the role. I am, like it or not, an anointed queen. A queen must complement her king, sit at his right hand.’ She blinked slowly and pointedly at Champart who sat at Edward’s right side with a smirk as bedevilled as a cat that has found his way into the dairy. ‘A queen’, she continued, ‘must be trusted by her king to rule temporarily if, God forbid, he became incapacitated through illness or the need to lead his army into war.’