New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  ‘So what of Goddwin?’ Leofwine asked, breaking into his brother’s thoughts. ‘Are you going to ride after him?’

  Harold rubbed his fingers over the stubble that was accumulating on his chin. He had no idea what he ought to do about his son. That he was resentful there was no doubting. He would talk to Edyth about it as soon as he returned to Waltham Abbey. Edyth possessed the wisdom of Solomon.

  ‘Ah, he’s young, leave him,’ Leofwine suggested when Harold made no answer. ‘He will soon realise the fool he has made of himself over this thing.’

  ‘And there speaks the accrued wisdom of one who is, what, nine and twenty?’

  The two brothers laughed together, Leofwine hurling a pillow at Harold who caught it, tossed it back.

  After a while, the younger man said thoughtfully, ‘Our sister means well. She has always been one to organise others – look how content she is mothering Edward. You would never have believed the pair could turn out to be so well suited. The one a clucking mother hen, the other an open-mouthed fledgling happy to have his dinner fed him.’

  Making no reply, Harold idly toured the chamber, his hand automatically fondling the ears of the two hounds stretched before the brazier as he stepped around them. As Earl of Wessex he was entitled to his own quarters within the complex of buildings that made up the royal palace at Westminster. Edyth had chosen the tapestries with especial care for their masculine content and strong colour – Harold particularly admired the one depicting a Viking longship. The waves were skittish, their white-topped caps splashing against the keel as the vessel ploughed her way ahead of a vigorous wind that filled and billowed her sail. The sea – there was always a thrilling excitement about the lure of the sea.

  Leofwine had invited himself to share his brother’s company and Harold had been pleased to take advantage of his good-humour. This restlessness was gnawing at his insides. He wanted to be doing something, to be away from the tedium of this faery world, this enchanted island where problems and political upheaval were held at bay by fixed smiles and prattled conversation.

  ‘Diplomatic discussion can never fully compensate for the thrill of battle lust.’ His father, Godwine, had said that. When? Harold stood before the tapestry, his tankard of ale in his hand, staring at that spirited ship. Ah, yes, during their time of exile, when the family had reunited in that shallow bay on the Island of Wight before turning their attention – and their fleet – on London. Leofwine had been there, too. Tostig, Gyrth – Swegn was already dead, or was he dying at that time? Harold could not recall. Only their brother Wulfnoth and Swegn’s son Hakon were missing. Taken as hostage into Normandy by that bastard Robert Champart. He was dead these many years now. A pity he had died of a natural cause; Harold would have liked to have slit his belly and let him die slowly and in agony for the trouble he had caused.

  Wulfnoth and Hakon. Boys when they had been forcibly taken from England, men of twenty-three and seventeen now. How many petitions, pleas and offers of ransom had been sent to Duke William for their release throughout these years? Diplomacy? Hah! Would that he could take an armed force such as that which he had taken into Wales and demand their return!

  Suddenly Harold turned, setting his tankard down with a decisive thud, startling the dogs awake. ‘I am going to Normandy. It is time we were united with our brother and nephew.’

  Leofwine lazily sat up, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘William always manages to find some plausible excuse to keep them with him. Our messengers report how charming and attentive he has been, how he has promised to review their plight as soon as opportunity presents itself.’

  ‘Opportunity that has not arisen for ten years, damn it! If he has reason to keep them hostage, then I think it time he explains it, personally to my face, not to some disinterested courier or in a letter that he can neither read nor write for himself.’

  Swinging his legs to the floor, attention aroused, Leofwine asked, ‘Have you some new strategy of assuring our uneasy English relationship with Normandy, then? If not, William the Bastard will not listen to you.’

  A slow grimace spread over one half of Harold’s mouth. ‘No doubt I will think of something before I reach Normandy. If not, I’ll rely on charming the stubble of hair off the back of his Normanshaved head!’ Harold’s grin broadened. He leant forward, plucked the pillow from the bed and pounded his brother with it. ‘I could always negotiate a wife for you. William has two young daughters, I believe.’

  Protecting his head with his hands, doubled over and protesting loudly, Leofwine spluttered laughter through a sudden shower of feathers, ‘Ah, no, you take one of them, I’ve a mind for a Lady Alditha. You are not the only stallion with an itch to service a pretty filly you know!’

  20

  Bosham Leofwine elected to ride south with Harold and his family; the June weather was sun-warmed and the court dull. He might as well enjoy the company of his brother’s brood and visit his mother at the same time.

  Of all her sons, the Countess Gytha considered Harold and Leofwine – eldest and second youngest – the nearest in looks, character and thinking to their father. Both reminded her so heartwrenchingly of Godwine. In his younger days he had been as handsome as they, as quick to laugh; as restless and adventurous. From where Tostig had received his moral seriousness or Edith her capacity to make such a dramatic fuss Gytha had no clue. Certainly not from their father!

  For all that his intentions were good, she was uncertain that Harold’s impulsive expedition to Normandy was to be recommended. While she would welcome with open heart Wulfnoth’s return, Gytha was uneasy at the venture. So many terrible rumours surrounded Duke William. All the more reason, Harold had pointed out with a quick laugh and fond hug for his mother, to deliver a hostage from the Norman’s taloned clutches.

  Leofwine seemed enthusiastic and the King had given his blessing, but then, with Tostig just returned to court from Northumbria, Edward was unlikely to take note of anything asked of him, preoccupied as he was with the new hawk her son had brought him.

  By tomorrow Harold would be gone, sailing on the morning tide. This week had passed so swiftly. It seemed only yesterday that he, Edyth and their dear children had arrived, bringing a flaming spark of energy to the somnolent atmosphere of Bosham Manor. Not that Gytha minded the tranquillity. She would be sixty years of age come late summer and while she felt sprightly and energetic on such sunfilled days as today, the chill of winter sent an ache through her bones that had not been there in previous years. Today, it was pleasant sitting in the sun of her sheltered, walled garden finishing the hand-weaving of a border she had been working to edge a new cloak.

  She lifted her head at the sound of a trotting pony’s hoof beats, craned her neck to see over the wicker gate central to the west wall. Was that her granddaughter? Algytha had promised not to ride too far with the men as they set out to hunt after breaking their fast.

  Within a few minutes a young woman opened the gate and ran through, her fair hair tossing and fluttering beneath the confines of a linen veil, a wide and attractively pleasant smile on her face. In her hand, a jug of her grandmother’s medicinal drink. How like her to think of it without being asked.

  ‘They have ridden out on to the marshes. I thought it too hot to ride far.’ Algytha flopped on to the grass, fanned herself with her hand a moment and said almost in the same breath, ‘Father says that if all is ready, he may well make sail on the evening tide and not wait for the morrow. I wish I were going with him. I love the open sea.’

  Countess Gytha tutted as her thread snagged. Harold was impatient to be off and doing, never had he been one – man or boy

  – to sit idle. ‘Have you told your mother so?’ she asked.

  ‘She is in the village still. I have left word in the Hall.’ ‘Well, then,’ the Countess said, setting her wools safe, ‘we had best ensure a suitable feast is prepared for his departure. As well I have an adequately provisioned storeroom.’

  The moon was high by eleven thirty an
d the tide calm, about to turn. With the ship loaded, all was ready. At the moment Leofwine regretted not agreeing to accompany Harold, but then, there was that young redhead he had discovered a while ago at the White Boar tavern. If he left her untended overlong, someone else with a keen eye for a shapely leg might pluck her away.

  He had, however, accompanied Harold into Bosham church for evening mass. It had been a strange experience, that service, almost ethereal. Cnut himself had ordered the building of the church; his young daughter, drowned in the mill stream, was buried beneath the nave. Godwine was buried in Winchester, but there had been a strong sense of him also – so great, that at one point Leofwine had thought that if he were to turn round he would see him looking up the nave towards the altar. He had glanced at his brother to see if he had noticed anything untoward, but Harold stood, rapt in thought, staring at the chancel arch. Later, however, as they had walked the short distance between church and manor house in the fading light of evening, Harold had said something that had again prickled the nape hairs of Leofwine’s neck.

  ‘Father would, perhaps, rather have been laid to rest here at Bosham. He loved this place so. Winchester, for all its magnificence, does not have the quiet contentment that abounds here.’

  Leofwine had said nothing, walked on in silence, only his boots crunching on the gravel path.

  ‘I have told Edyth that I would be buried at our manor if circumstances allow. My home is with her, whatever second wife I may one day take, whatever future track I may follow.’

  He had walked on, then, matching Leofwine stride for stride, and said nothing more until they had reached the open gateway of Bosham Manor. ‘Take good care of Edyth should anything happen to me, my brother. My heart has always, will always, rest with her.’

  Leofwine stood on the shore beside his sister-in-law, his hand poised in its rising, the other draped around Edyth’s waist. Those few last things had been loaded as the tide flooded, bobbing the ship, anxious to break free of her mooring. Harold was to take gifts to Duke William: hunting hounds, a hawk. Gifts that would symbolise his intention of peace.

  When Harold would be back again in England none of them on the shore at Bosham had the knowing. The three boys, Edmund, Magnus and Ulf, were off and running through the marsh grass to keep pace with the ship while they could. Little Gunnhild, six, was almost asleep in her mother’s arms, her fair lashes sweeping down sleep-heavy over blue eyes. Edyth was biting her lip – Leofwine could see the blood oozing – trying not to weep out here where others could see her.

  It must be so lonely, Leofwine thought, being a woman so often left behind while we menfolk go off happily chasing our goblin-pot of ideas.

  ‘He will come home safe, won’t he, grandmother?’ Algytha asked, a tremor in her voice.

  The Countess Gytha quietly took hold of her namesake’s hand. ‘Of course he will, child. What harm can possibly come to the King’s Earl of Wessex?’

  21

  Ponthieu Had Harold possessed a soothsayer’s foresight, then he would have turned his ship back a few hours into the sea crossing, waited at Bosham harbour another few days or abandoned all idea of the trip to Normandy. As it was, no one could have known that the sprightly wind would, in mid-Channel, turn malevolent and that the craft, as if she were a bolting horse, would not be turned those few essential degrees to the south-east.

  Now, sitting chained, with body and ego distinctly bruised in a malodorous, damp and dim-lit cellar in the bowels of the fortress of Beaurain, the lure of Normandy and a mission to Duke William seemed suddenly not so appealing. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing that the imbeciles who had arrested him and his crew had suffered as many, if not more, injuries than their captives.

  Unsure of the coastline ahead, but certain they were nearing Saint-Valéry-sur-Somme, too far to the north of their intended destination, they had reefed the sail and persuaded the ship into the mouth of the river to the nearer, northern embankment. Patting each other boisterously on the back in self-congratulation at avoiding certain shipwreck, they had waded ashore, to be met by what appeared to be a gang of cut-throat thieves.

  ‘What? Is this how Normandy greets her visitors?’ Harold had shouted in indignant French. ‘Is your duke so weak that he must welcome an envoy from England with such hostility?’

  The reply was drawn daggers and ‘Ponthieu does not take kindly to pirates!’

  The fighting was brief for the English were outnumbered and not prepared for such a ferocious reception. Harold’s mission was peaceful; coming in armour and bristling with weapons would indeed have sent the wrong signals. It seemed this bevy of undisciplined ruffians were incapable of noticing the obvious, however.

  Bound and tethered like captive slaves, they were marched to Beaurain. Several times Harold attempted to convince their captors that their lord would have something to say at this gross misunderstanding, but no one listened.

  On entering the fortress the reason why became clear. Guy de Ponthieu was not on the best of terms with Duke William and he was an astute opportunist. With the number and quality of merchantmen sailing between Flanders, Normandy and England, he found it was worth setting a patrol along his coast. Worth the easy pickings that bad weather provided. And occasionally there was a windfall: a rich mariner or passenger to be ransomed.

  Harold’s head throbbed. A cut above his right eye was oozing blood, his ribs ached. For three days had they been incarcerated here and the novelty was beginning to pall.

  ‘I am Harold, Earl of Wessex, come as a peaceful emissary of Edward, King of England, to William, Duke of Normandy.’ What had been the point? Ponthieu had not listened, except to prick his ears and increase the price of the ransom he was anticipating. His only comment had been rude and officious: ‘Then you are unfortunate. I have a hatred of the English and I am not the Duke.’

  The insult was compounded by his arrogance in chaining Harold as if he were a common thief. Mind, that had partly been of Harold’s own doing, for he had refused to give his parole not to attempt to escape. ‘I’m buggered if I’ll give word that I’ll sit idle and scratch my arse while you send to England for an extortionate ransom!’

  Again, Harold tugged at the chains attaching his fetters to the wall; to no avail, the fastenings were secure. One of his men, needing to relieve his bladder, fumbled as well as he could at the lacings of his breeches, half turned to the wall, let his water stream to the floor. The smell of fresh urine made little difference to the already appalling stench. Eadric straightened his garments and reseated himself as far from the noxious puddle as his chains would allow. ‘I am not impressed by the accommodation here, my Lord. In fact’ – Eadric’s grin revealed more gum than teeth – ‘it stinks.’

  ‘Let us just hope Tofi managed to get clear,’ Harold answered with a sigh of frustrated boredom. There was little use in shouting, allowing full vent to his anger – he had already tried it – but once he was restored to freedom and status, then God help Guy de Ponthieu!

  ‘He is a good housecarl, Tofi,’ another of Harold’s men said, ‘one of our best. If anyone can reach Eu for help, he can.’

  ‘I am not so concerned about whether he can reach the cursed place,’ Eadric responded with a growl of frustration, ‘just when. What if those poxed Normans are as block-headed as this lot here? What if they’ll not listen to Tofi? How long will we be sitting like surplus fowl, trussed ready for the pot?’

  ‘You speak for yourself, Eadric!’ someone else laughed. ‘You’re plump enough, with that ale-belly of yours. Some of us have no dinner meat clinging to our bones.’

  ‘Aye, some of you would be better boiled down and used for toothpicks!’

  ‘What would you know of such a nobleman’s accessory, Eadric? You have no teeth to use one on!’

  At least, Harold thought to himself, though we may be in a damned awkward situation, we have our lives – and our humour.

  Duke William was residing at Rouen. At Eu, Tofi, one of the most faithful and qui
ck-thinking of Harold’s housecarls, went straight to the fortress and demanded to speak with the man who held highest authority. The constable listened in silence to the Englishman, and acted promptly in response. Given a swift horse and an escort to Rouen, Tofi found himself attempting to explain to the Duke of Normandy in person that Earl Harold of England was in desperate and ignominious straits.

  At first, William could not make sense of the garbled, breathless plea from the Englishman who spoke very little French very badly. Something about a strong wind and renegades? He did recognise the name Guy de Ponthieu. A creeping snail. An obnoxious, slimetrailed . . .

  ‘E st-ce qu’il y a quelqu’un qui parle anglais ici?’ he demanded, looking at the men clustered in curiosity around the visitor. ‘Does anyone here speak English?’

  A man – Tofi took him to be a man, for he was heavily bearded and wore male apparel – stepped forward with a bow. This incongruous person stood barely the height of a large dog. ‘I am Turold,’ the dwarf said. ‘You must forgive my poor English, but it is better than your appalling French, n’est-ce pas?’

  Tofi recognised, with relief, his own tongue and explained briefly but precisely the difficulty that his lord Harold had fallen into. Turold translated rapidly as he spoke.

  William’s face grew more clenched and venomous as this Englishman’s meaning became plain. Before Turold had finished, William was on his feet, enraged, bellowing for horses to be saddled. ‘That upstart will not get away with such discourtesy! How dare he dishonour a man of rank who comes in peace to visit me? By God’s Grace, Ponthieu will regret his greed and this personal insult to me!’

  Tofi could barely believe that within the hour he was riding back along the same route, mounted on a fine stallion with the Duke’s guard and the Duke himself. Two messengers had been sent ahead at the gallop, carrying dire warnings from Normandy. Ponthieu was to present himself and William’s visitor, unharmed, at the fortress of Eu. William’s curt message had carried an addendum. Explanation for embarrassing the Duke would be required.