New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

‘Aye, and then your father will try to enforce taking the English crown for his own. There’ll be more than a few Normans attempting to come into England when that day occurs, I’m thinking!’

  The girl’s mouth had dropped open. ‘How did you know? Father has forbidden anyone to talk of his ambition for England!’ Her mind raced. Had she inadvertently let it slip? God help her hide if she had!

  Harold gently squeezed her fingers in reassurance. ‘You father, for all the love you rightfully bear him, is not as clever as he thinks. I have known all along. I am an important man in England; my word will carry much weight when the time comes to elect our next king. Your father has been courting me with as much energy as it seems I may need to employ should I make up my mind to take you as wife.’

  Agatha seized on those last words. He had not, then, yet agreed to have her? Oh, thank God! Mayhap he would not want her and she would be free of this. He seemed so unconcerned about being used by her father as a stepping stone to what nearly all men in Normandy privately said was an impossibility. Robert, her eldest brother, had said openly that their father was a fool if he thought he could ever persuade the English to accept him as their king. ‘Half of Normandy does not want him because of his tyranny and foul temper,’ he had told her not so long ago. ‘Why he thinks England would open her arms and joyfully welcome him, I know not. Not unless that country is indeed as moon-mad as our father often credits her to be.’

  Agatha had not been shocked by her brother’s discourtesy; Robert detested their father with a vehemence that was becoming close to the hatred that existed between opposing armies. That was another whisper rustling quietly through the shadows of court: one day, when he eventually came into his own strength, Robert would be pushed too far by William’s constant ridiculing and would retaliate by overthrowing his father. Except even Agatha could see that Robert, with his mood swings between spiteful bullying and effeminate parading, was not half the man her father was.

  To Harold, she said, ‘Do you not mind that my father has been befriending you for purposes of his own? I should be most grieved to learn that I was only wanted as a friend because of my position, not because of who I am.’

  Harold suppressed another laugh. She was so young and naïve. How could he take her away from Normandy and subject her to the lonely life of an unwanted, unloved wife? Yet that was what probably awaited the poor lass anyway, whomsoever she might eventually marry. At least with him she would be getting a man who cared for her welfare. There were plenty of men – men four and five times her age – who would covet the pleasure of taking such a young maid to their bed and nothing else.

  ‘Do I mind? Non, mademoiselle, not as long as the tactics your father is using suit my purpose also. I am willing to play the blindeyed fool to his scheming if, at the end of the day, I can return home to England with my brother and nephew.’ At the seriousness of her expression, he added with an eye-wrinkling smile, ‘And warmed with the knowledge that I have had the honour of meeting the prettiest young lady in the whole of Normandy.’

  Agatha blushed. She envied her brothers. They would have some degree of choice in whom they married. It was so hard being born a girl. All the harder, she supposed, once the girl became a woman grown. ‘If I were to come to England,’ she said slowly, ‘there is the possibility that my father will become king and my mother queen. As your wife I would be at court often, would I not?’

  ‘Oui, certainement.’ What else could Harold reply? She would soon realise, as would her father, that Harold had no intention of promoting William’s hopes before the English Council. Propose a bastard-born Norman for the throne of England? Had Harold heard William’s eldest son’s scorn, he would have cheered at his good sense!

  Harold, glancing across the crowded Hall, saw William fitz Osbern frantically beckoning him. Now what did Duke William’s attendant arse wiper want? ‘Excuse me, mademoiselle.’ Harold stood. ‘I am being hailed and must go.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘I would ask that you keep our conversation private, for the reason that you may, one day soon, be my wife.’ He raised an eyebrow and stared his meaning fully at her for a long moment.

  She nodded, the kerchief again threading in agitation through her fingers. He was telling her that if she betrayed his confidence she would regret the tale-telling as soon as he had her in England. ‘I shall say nothing. I expect Papa wishes you to witness the oathtaking of his lords and nobles. He always insists that all take some part in the ceremony.’

  Harold bowed to Agatha, then walked forward to meet an agitated fitz Osbern, who escorted him towards the raised dais to the east end of the Hall. There Mathilda sat, lavishly gowned, beside her husband; the eldest boy, Robert, scowled his displeasure from the front ranks of waiting noblemen. A few more years and he would be the first required to mount the dais, kneel before the Duke and pledge the annually renewed vow of fealty. If father and son had not succeeded in slitting each other’s throats by then.

  Harold found the prospect of this ceremony distasteful. In England a housecarl pledged loyalty to his lord out of respect and love for that man. They chose which lord they would serve and their faith maintained that lord’s exalted position. If he did not keep faith with their loyalty in return then a lord would fall as swift as a mouldering fruit is plucked from the store barrel and flung to rot on the midden heap. These oaths of allegiance being sworn, monotonously repetitive as, one by one, William’s knights came to kneel and kiss his ring, did not come from the heart. There was no pride in the step of each man who came forward, no sincerity in their muttered words. This oath was made under duress: serve me, be loyal to me, or lose all you have. That was the only choice available to these harnessed mules. Eustace, comte de Boulogne, came forward; Robert de Maine; le comte d’Evreux; le comte de Mortagne; Aimeri, vicomte de Thouars; Walter Gifford; Ralph de Tosny; Hugh de Montfort and Hugh de Grandmesnil; William de Warenne; William Malet; Roger, son of Turold; Turstein fitz Rollo; Richard fitz Gilbert; Alan Fergant de Bretagne, vassal of Normandy . . . so many more; Harold knew most of them by sight now. He stiffened as a man he had no desire ever to meet again knelt before Duke William. Guy, comte de Ponthieu. He caught Harold’s displeased glower and returned it with a none too discreet gesture of lewdness.

  And then eyes and bodies were swivelling towards Harold.

  ‘My Lord Earl? Will you not also grant me the honour of declaring your intention of prospective kinship?’

  The Hall had fallen almost silent. Harold stood, bewildered. William sat forward on his throne, one elbow resting on the naked sword blade that lay across his knee. His mouth smiled, but there was a glint of something else in his eyes. ‘Sir?’ he repeated. ‘You are my knighted comrade. I myself put the armour about your shoulders, placed the sword in your hand, my kiss upon your cheek. You are, are you not, my declared vassal? Will soon, perhaps, become my son by marriage? I think it right you do swear the oath to me also. Do you not agree?’

  This, Harold had not expected. The anger shuddered through him with the force of the bore tide that surged up the estuary of the Severn river. He licked his lips, trying to think what best to do, glanced at the watching faces hoping to spy a hint of help. No one met his eyes. Not one of William’s whore-poxed lick-spits dared face him. How many had known of this trap? How many had privately laughed at the stupidity of this damned bloody fool of an Englishman? Some? All?

  And then Harold saw Hakon standing at the back, his face drained of colour, the fear on it easy to read. Behind him stood two of William’s guards, apparently positioned there by chance, but Harold could see their fingers hovering over their swords, their gazes firm-fixed on Hakon’s back. Knew as well as the lad that were he to refuse to swear then both of them would be seeing the darker side of Duke William’s damp and foul-smelling dungeon. And would be kept there until they died.

  ‘You promised that you would take me from here!’ The words leapt from Hakon’s expressive, desperate eyes. ‘You promised!’

  In these few shor
t days Harold had come to know Hakon as a trusted and trusting friend. Something that ran deeper than the tie of kinship had sparked between them and the years of enforced separation had dwindled into nothing but a memory.

  How binding was a promise? Ah, that depended on the nature of the oath and the amount of honour within the man. When a man offered his sword to his chosen lord he was bound to keep his word or lose his honour; the promise to set an afeared youth free of his shackles was equally binding. An English lord paid homage and loyalty by undertaking to do his best by the men who served him. To rule fairly, to protect the children and womenfolk, to lead bravely in battle. To take upon his shoulders the responsibility of caring for those men who had promised to serve without question. And in the Saxon tradition, above all else, a man could knowingly declare false oath and not be perjured for that swearing, if the safety or honour of another depended on it.

  They were waiting expectantly, most of them hoping Earl Harold of England would show himself the greater fool by refusing outright the Duke’s command. Harold must surely oblige them, for William had no right to demand he speak the word of faith and fidelity. It would be an oath taken against his will and better judgement. Yet had not most of the men here this day proclaimed their troth under the same harsh conditions? Swear, or lose your land and freedom. Or your life.

  Duke William was holding his beringed hand out to Harold, the gloating smile broadening into triumph.

  ‘We are allies, are we not?’ he coaxed, his voice smooth with practised charm. ‘Soon, alas, we must set you on your way home to England, accompanied, no doubt, by your nephew. Soon, also, your brother – Wulfnoth be his name? Wulfnoth will honour me by escorting my eldest-born daughter to you. In return for the patronage of my kinship you will agree to represent my care and concern for the future of England’s throne. You will remind King Edward that he did favour my claim. I shall expect him to honour that favour in the making of his will, and from you also, as my sworn vassal.’

  The fury choked in Harold’s throat. Vomit rose in his gullet. So this was why he had been kept in Normandy, why he had been played for the simpleton! Once the annual day of oath-taking was past, once he had pledged this foul promise, he would be free to return to England. Aye, free, but bribed with the lure of the daughter of the duchy as wife, threatened with harm to his brother if he refused. Yet for the good of another an oath might be made and broken without loss of honour. For the good of Hakon, and more, for the safety of England . . . They were only words, after all.

  Harold stepped forward, his throat and lips dry, his fists clenched. He stared with a hard dislike at William, then knelt, touched the sword and set his lips to the Duke’s ring.

  William nodded his acceptance, but before Harold could repeat the oath said quickly and with menace, ‘I think I may need some further assurance from you, my Lord Harold. Being that you do not reside here in Normandy.’ He clicked his fingers; two servants brought in two wooden caskets. ‘These contain the holy relics of Normandy’s most precious saints. Swear your oath on them, Earl Harold, make your words truly binding.’

  Harold’s rage almost boiled over the edge of restraint. It was one thing knowingly to break an oath made to a man, another to do so against God. Yet was not God, too, just and honourable in His wisdom? Did He not respect the time-cherished ways of the Saxon kind? Not bothering to mask the rage that was churning in his mind and stomach, Harold laid a finger on each casket, repeating aloud the words of fealty that Bishop Odo dictated to him: ‘I pledge to my Lord Duke William, son of Robert of Normandy, my fealty and my loyalty. Do offer my duty as Earl of England to your honour. To speak your words, as if spoken from your mouth, to the noblemen of England’s realm. To provide for you, when Edward is at the end of his noble life and called unto God, the crown, the sceptre and the throne of England, so that you may rule in the way of Edward’s wisdom.’ It was done. With gorge in his mouth, but done.

  Duke William nodded, satisfied. He took and held Harold’s hand between his own palms a moment. Met, as he rose to his feet, Harold’s blazing eyes.

  In them there was no calm of spirit, no come-what-may frivolity. Nor was there any hint whatsoever of fear. In that one brief passing instant William realised he had made a vast error of judgement. All these long months observing Harold, assessing him, deciding his worth, moving each piece of the game, square by square, slowly, surely; calculating the ultimate goal. Again and again William had won his private tournament against this English Earl Harold.

  Looking direct into Harold’s eyes, that mid-December afternoon, William belatedly understood, with stomach-churning dread, that Harold, too, had been playing a game. His foolery, his complacence, his mild manners had lulled his opponent with blithe ease into a false appraisal.

  Harold said nothing more as he turned without bowing and walked away from the dais. He made his way through the low murmuring of the crowd to the doorway, Hakon following at his heel. He left the Hall and went direct to the quarters where his men lounged.

  ‘We are leaving,’ he announced curtly. ‘Now, as soon as horses may be saddled and our belongings packed.’

  He turned away, realised Hakon had followed.

  The younger man’s expression was grim, his skin grey and pale. ‘Now do you believe me about William?’ he asked.

  ‘I never doubted you, lad. I only misjudged the depth of how much of a bastard he is.’

  Hakon headed straight to the stables. ‘I have nothing that I care to take with me from this cursed place. I shall await you by the gates.’

  Harold made no comment, was barely listening. Over the spilt blood of death would William become king of England, and never with help from Harold’s hand. That was a second, silent oath that Harold had made as he had spoken aloud those obscene words. That never, never, would he allow William on to English soil.

  If the need came, if there was no one worthy or suitable to follow Edward, then he, Harold Godwinesson himself, would take up the crown and do his best, unless death prevented it, to protect England from Norman ambition.

  PART THREE

  The Anger . . .

  1

  York – December 1064 The five men leant their arms on the worn and stained table, each close-cradling a pewter tankard of ale, each carefully watching who else might be coming, or leaving the tavern. They had deliberately chosen this corner table, tucked well into the shadows, in an inn not often frequented by men they might know.

  ‘Even if we are espied,’ Gamalbearn had gruffly pointed out, ‘we are but five acquaintances quenching our thirst together.’ The others had agreed, but not wholeheartedly.

  ‘Aldanhamel was slain by Earl Tostig’s orders before the steps of the chancel at St Cuthbert’s in Durham,’ Ulf Dolfinsson said to his companions in a low, contemptuous voice.

  ‘Aye, after he had pleaded sanctuary.’

  ‘And all for refusing to pay in tax what he had not got.’ ‘A thegn such as Aldanhamel! Outlawed and slain in so vile a

  manner!’

  The men shook their heads in sorrowing agreement with the last speaker, Gluniarn, all of them equally appalled at the profanity of what had amounted to murder within the sanctity of the cathedral.

  ‘The King’s friend will stop at nothing to accumulate more wealth.’

  ‘And it is us, mud-caked foot-stools beneath his feet, who are helping him achieve it.’ Dunstan slammed his tankard back on to the table in disgust. Tostig Godwinesson: the name was becoming a curse on the lips of men suffering under his regime of discipline.

  Some thought Earl Tostig’s ambition had grown worse since Gruffydd ap Llewelyn’s downfall. Until then, Tostig had concentrated on enforcing the haphazard and neglected laws, overindustriously some had said, but if a man committed a crime then he should be suitably punished. If too many men were beheaded for murder and rape, or had hands removed or noses slit for robbery, then perhaps there had been over-much crime in the first place. Not one of the thegns within Tostig’s jurisdiction
had complained at his establishing the right to walk the roads without attack, but no thegn would tolerate this excessive demand for taxes. The North was so much poorer than the South by way of population, trade and sheer practicality of the rough, moorland terrain, and for that Tostig cursed and pined. Had he been made Earl of Mercia or Anglia, Kent or Oxfordshire . . . but no, he had the undowered North. He could not, in all reason, raise the level of taxation to match that of the richer South. Yet within a few weeks of his brother’s sailing for Normandy he had done just that, to the rage and disgust of those forced, by decree of the King, to pay homage to him.

  The thegns agreed that it was the Welsh campaign, for all that it had been fought under Harold’s command, which made Tostig overconfident. It had given him the experience of the battlefield and the kudos of a victory. Since Wales, it had seemed that there was nothing beyond Tostig’s increasingly corrupt capabilities. The problem was compounded by the King’s unrestricted favour, for in Edward’s eyes Tostig could do nothing wrong; he would hear no word of criticism or grievance against him. The five men knew this for certain, for they had, by subtle means, tried. Had Earl Harold been in England these last months when the problems of the North had suddenly escalated, then things would have been different; he had the knack of holding both the King and his brother in check.

  They were meeting, these five thegns, to discuss what they could do next. Dunstan voiced the frustration of them all. ‘I have eight and forty hides of land, for which I have paid sixteen shillings in taxation. I now must pay twenty-four. ’Tis too much, I cannot afford such an outrageous amount.’

  Gamalbearn, the eldest of them, chewed his lip angrily. His father had been thegn before him and, aye, his father before that. They had fought loyally for England; he personally had sworn fealty to the old earl, Siward, who lay cold in his grave beneath the slate floor of St Olaf’s church here in York. Siward had never been so grasping; Siward understood the ways and difficulties of those of the North; their steadfast traditions and their wary mistrust of the affluent, uncompromising South.